HILURA 


^% 


ORENCE  MORSE 
-  KINGSLEY      • 


.^. 


^p^^-'^^ 


^     =d^:     ^ 


THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 


Quite  calmly  and  simply  she  found 
herself  ihinkinej  of  tlie  hidden  picture 


/THE 
HEAKT  OF  PHILURA 


^ 


By 
FLORENCE  MORSE  KINGSLEY 

Author  of  "The  Transfiguration  of  Miss 

Philura,"      "Miss      Philura's      Wedding 

Gown,"  "The  Glass  House,"  etc. 


FRONTISPIECE    BY 
ROBERT  W.  AMICK 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,    MEAD    AND   COMPANY 

1915 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Hidden  Pictuke 1 

II    Apriling 15 

III  Transfiguration 24 

IV  ''A  Spot  Where  Spirits  Blend  "     .  33 
V    The  Closed  Door 46 

VI    The  Hill  Family 57 

VII    Malvina  Bennett,  Dressmaker     .      .  70 

VIII    The  Ornes 82 

IX     The  Door  Ajar 91 

X    A  Night  of  Rain  and  the  Morning 

After 99 

XI    A  Little  Journey  in  the  World  .      .111 

XII    Millstones  and  Opportunities     .      .  129 

XIII  Not  at  Home  to  Visitors     ....  143 

XIV  Molly  Drives  the  Cow     ....  155 
XV    On  the  Old  Eoad 163 

XVI    Malvina  Bennett  Points  a  Moral     .  171 

V 


Ti  CONTENTS 

CHAPTEK  PAGE 

XVII    Where  Is  Sylvia? 187 

XVIII  Wings  of  the  Morning     .      .      .  201 

XIX  Grandma  Orne  Speaks  Her  Mind  208 

XX    At  the  Parsonage 221 

XXI    The  Confession 241 

XXII    A  Rainy  Dawn 252 

XXIII  Playing  Mother 256 

XXIV  Sylvia's  Child 271 

XXV  ''  Unto  Us  a  Son  Is  Born  "     .      .290 

XXVI  The  Parish  Hears  the  News  .      .  298 

XXVII     The  Ladies  Aid 317 

XXVIII  Miss  Phh^ura's  Baby     ....  327 

XXIX    The  Lord  Gave 345 

XXX    MiLLY 355 


THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   HIDDEN   PICTURE 

April  came  in  on  a  Monday  that  year ;  and  Mon- 
day being,  as  all  the  world  knows,  the  minister's 
Sabbath,  the  Reverend  Silas  Pettibone  decided  to 
celebrate  it  by  going  to  Boston,  with  the  avowed 
purpose  of  attending  a  missionary  convention. 

**  You  will — er — of  course  accompany  me,  my 
dear?  "  he  said  to  his  Tvife,  in  a  tone  of  perfunc- 
tory kindness  which  did  not  for  a  moment  deceive 
her. 

She  was  a  small  person,  with  blue  eyes  under 
faintly  marked,  childish  brows,  and  an  indeter- 
minate, rosy  mouth,  like  that  of  a  young  girl. 

At  the  moment  she  was  industriously  employed 
in  cleaning  the  collar  of  Mr.  Pettibone 's  best 
preaching-coat  with  a  bit  of  black  cloth,  which  she 
dipped  now  and  then  in  a  cup  containing  ammonia 
and  water. 

''  It  will  look,"  she  said,  rather  proudly,  "  al- 
most like  new."     Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"No;  I  really  couldn't  go  to  Boston  to-day. 
Thank  you  for  asking  me,  Mr.  Pettibone." 

''  You're  welcome,  I'm  sure,  Miss  Philura,"  he 
replied,  a  slow  smile  wrinkling  the  corners  of  his 
kindly  eyes. 


2  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  they  both  laughed, 
sedately. 

"  Why  won't  you  come  along?  "  he  pursued, 
with  a  notable  access  of  eagerness.  ''I'd  really 
like  to  have  you  ^ith  me." 

But  she  persisted  in  her  refusal,  advancing  va- 
rious housewifely  and,  therefore,  incontrovertible 
reasons.  There  was,  she  said,  the  study  to  be 
cleaned,  for  one  thing. 

He  frowned  slightly  at  the  suggestion. 

"  Eeally,  my  dear  Philura,  as  I  think  I  have 
said  before,  I — er — very  much  prefer  not  to  have 
you,  or  anyone,  touch  that  room.  Everything  is 
quite  as  I  like  it — though  I  dare  say  it  may  ap- 
pear very  untidy  to  you.  Books  and  papers  once 
arranged  to  one 's  hand  cannot  be  disturbed  with- 
out serious  inconvenience.  If  you  don 't  mind — er 
— doing  something  else,  my  dear ;  and — ah — leave 
my  study  precisely  as  it  is." 

She  smiled  astutely. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  mentioned  it,"  she  said. 
"  I  know  you  dislike  having  your  room  cleaned. 
Anyway,  I  have  to  sweep  the  parlour  to-day,  and 
look  after  the  washwoman." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  murmured,  "  I  had  quite  forgot- 
ten the  laundress.  I  suppose  you  couldn't  leave 
Mrs.  Wessels  in  the  house  to  wait  on  herself?  She 
would — ah — resent  it." 

Again  that  demure  smile  flitted  over  Mrs. 
Pettibone's  lips. 


THE  HIDDEN  PICTURE 


<< 


I  couldn't  think  of  going,"  she  said,  gently. 

And  since  the  preaching-coat  was  by  this  time 
cleverly  freshened  and  pressed,  the  minister  pres- 
ently went  away  in  it,  quite  happy  and  satisfied, 
after  kissing  his  wife  good-bye  at  the  door. 

She  stood  watching  his  tall,  spare  figure  as  he 
hurried  away  down  the  street.  It  was  a  pleasant 
morning;  the  sun  lay  warm  and  yellow  on  the 
rough  brown  sod,  where  slender  young  grass- 
blades  were  already  pricking  greenly  to  the  light. 
Overhead  the  big  maples  tossed  their  scarlet 
blooms  against  a  brilliant  sky,  and  from  some- 
where a  great  way  off  came  the  piercing  sweet  cry 
of  a  meadow  lark. 

At  the  precise  moment  when  the  rapidly  reced- 
ing figure  of  the  minister  disappeared  at  the  far 
corner  of  the  street,  the  gate  of  the  parsonage 
yard  clicked,  then  slammed  shut  behind  the 
shawled  and  hooded  figure  of  a  woman. 

''  Good-mornin',  Mis'  Pettibone,"  said  a  sadly 
resigned  voice.  ''  Watchin'  him  out  of  sight — 
uh?    Didn't  you  know  that  was  awful  bad  luck?  " 

*'  Why  no,  Mrs.  Wessels,"  smiled  the  minis- 
ter's wife,  ''  I  never  heard  that  it  was.  Why 
should  it  be?  " 

The  woman  sighed  despondently  as  she  slowly 
mounted  the  steps. 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  it  come  out  the  Bible,  first  er 
last;  most  everythin'  like  that  doos.  I  s'pose 
mebbe  Noah  watched  the  heathen  a-goin'  away — 


4  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

him  a-standin'  in  tli'  door  of  th'  ark — after  they'd 
got  through  a-laughin'  at  him  fer  biiildin'  it.  He 
didn't  see  'em  no  more.  They  was  all  swep'  away. 
An'  I  remember  once  I  stood  on  my  front  stoop — 
jus'  like  you  was  doin' — a-watchin'  Wessels  goin' 
to  'is  work,  an'  that  very  day  he  fell  off  the  roof 
an'  done  somethin'  to  'is  insides,  so  he's  never 
been  no  good  fer  work  sence.  My!  I  no  more 
'xpected  t'  be  goin'  out  washin'  fer  other  folks 
'an  you  do  this  minute!  But  I'm  sure  I  hope  our 
paster '11  come  home  mth  a  hull  skin." 

Her  rebuking  glance  fastened  the  responsibility 
for  Mr.  Pettibone's  needlessly  imperilled  safety 
where  it  belonged. 

*'  Have  you  had  your  breakfast,  Mrs.  Wes- 
sels? "  the  guilty  party  inquired,  as  she  led  the 
way  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Well'm,  I  supped  a  swaller  o'  coffee  when  I 
give  Wessels  an'  the  childern  their  breakfas'es; 
but  I  didn't  stop  to  t'  eat  nothin'. — No'm,  I  don't 
care  fer  cod-fish;  if  you've  got  a  strip  o'  bacon 
or  a  slice  o'  cold  meat " 

Mrs.  Wessels  exhaled  a  sibilant  breath,  indica- 
tive of  profound  exhaustion,  as  she  surveyed  Mrs. 
Pettibone's  preparations  for  her  refreshment. 

"  As  I  says  t'  Wessels  this  mornin',  '  I  dunno,' 
I  says, '  how  much  longer  I'm  goin' t'  be  able  t'  do 
other  folks'  dirty  work.  I  ain't  feelin'  so  well  as 
I  did  a  spell  ago.'    An'  he  says  t'  me,  '  Knock  on 


THE  HIDDEN  PICTURE  5 

wood,  Louisa,'  he  says.  I  had  t'  laugh.  He  doos 
git  things  mixed  so ! 

"  Now  I'll  set  dowTi  an'  try  t'  eat  a  "bite. 
Mebbe  I'll  get  up  stren'th  t'  rub  out  a  few  pieces. 
I  s'pose  you  put  the  clo'es  t'  soak,  same  as  usu'l? 
It's  quite  a  help,  if  it's  done  proper." 

Having  set  Mrs.  Wessels  in  the  carefully  oiled 
grooves  of  her  morning  activities,  Mrs.  Pettibone 
betook  herself  without  further  delay  to  the  minis- 
terial sanctum.  The  opportunity  was  an  imusual 
one  and  must  be  improved  to  the  full.  Mr.  Petti- 
bone was  seldom  absent  from  his  study  for  more 
than  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time.  He  appeared 
possessed  of  an  uncanny  prescience  which  led  him 
to  reappear  at  unexpected  moments  in  search  of 
an  address-book,  a  pencil,  or  a  fresh  supjDly  of 
enrollment  cards  for  his  Sunday  school.  On  at 
least  tw^o  occasions  he  had  surprised  his  wife,  ar- 
rayed in  dust-cap  and  apron,  stealthily  removing 
the  accumulated  debris  of  his  ministerial  labors. 

On  the  first  of  these  occasions,  which  occurred 
soon  after  their  marriage,  he  had  bestowed  one  of 
his  rare  caresses  upon  his  bride,  as  a  sort  of 
soothing  preliminary;  after  which,  with  great 
gentleness  and  firmness,  he  had  pointed  out  to  her 
the  totally  unnecessary  character  of  her  self-ap- 
pointed task. 

"  A  minister's  study,  my  dear  Philura,  does  not 
require  so-called  cleaning,"  he  said.  ''  Cleaning, 
as  you  know,  involves  rearrangement,  vicissitude, 


6  THE  HEAKT  OF  PHILURA 

change;  in  a  word,  disturbance.  However  desir- 
able, and  even  useful,  such  periodic  conditions 
may  be  in  other  parts  of  our  home — here  they  are 
totally  unnecessary  and  must  be — ah — inter- 
dicted." 

Whereupon  he  had  taken  the  pains  to  go  into 
the  subject  more  in  detail,  pointing  out  to  his  wife 
(who  was,  as  he  well  knew,  the  pink  of  house- 
wifely neatness)  how  much  more  serviceable  and 
useful  were  his  various  commentaries,  concord- 
ances, and  sacred  histories  when  scattered  about 
the  floor  in  piles  convenient  to  his  hand.  Arranged 
in  neat,  well-ordered  rows  upon  the  shelves,  the 
appearance  of  these  volumes  might  indeed  please 
the  eye  of  a  person  unacquainted  with  labors  of  a 
literary  and  religious  nature.  Order,  he  pointed 
out,  was  unquestionably  heaven's  first  law;  but 
order  on  the  higher  planes  of  mental  activity  fre- 
quently involved  what  might  appear  to  the  un- 
initiated as  a  very  chaos  of  disorder.  Where- 
upon, he  learnedly  illustrated  his  point  by  an 
allusion  to  the  cosmic  disintegration  incident  to 
the  building  of  a  universe,  a  world,  or  even  so 
unimportant  a  sphere  as  a  moon. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  honestly  thrilled  by  his 
eloquence ;  she  blushed  and  smiled,  even  while  she 
whisked  a  stray  tear  from  her  lashes. 

^'  But  the  waste-basket,"  she  hesitated,  *'  it  was 
quite  full,  you  know,  and  the  papers  were  all  about 
the  floor.    I  may  empty  the  basket,  mayn't  I?  and 


THE  HIDDEN  PICTURE  7 

— and  dust  just  a  little — a  very  little,  and  quite 
carefully?    Eeally,  the  dust  was  stifling." 

But  the  minister  shook  his  head. 

"Decidedly — no!"  he  said.  "Sometimes — 
that  is  to  say,  occasionally — I  mislay  a  paper. 
Why,  only  last  week  I  could  not,  for  the  moment, 
lay  my  hand  on  the  first  sheet  of  my  Sunday  even- 
ing discourse.  And  where  do  you  think  I  found 
it?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  could  not  possibly  guess. 

"  On  the  floor,  my  dear  Philura,  where  I  may 
casually  have  dropped  it  in  a  moment  of  abstrac- 
tion. Now,  if,  in  the  meantime,  some  well-inten- 
tioned person — yourself,  for  example — had  en- 
tered my  room,  and  had,  as  you  say,  tidied  it 
up,  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  entirely  re- 
write that  page  at  great  inconvenience  to  my- 
self." 

"  How  long,"  inquired  Mrs.  Pettibone  de- 
murely, but  with  growing  hardihood,  "were  you 
obliged  to  hunt  for  that  page?  " 

"  How  long?  Why — er — really,  my  dear,  I 
couldn't  tell  you  precisely.  I  know  I  went 
through  the  entire  contents  of  my  waste-basket, 
and  also  examined  the  stray  papers  on  the  floor. 
But  I  came  upon  my  quarry  at  last  behind  the 
sofa,  where  I  suppose  some  chance  draught  had 
carried  it.  From  this  you  can  see  how  essentially 
important,  how  entirely  necessary  it  is  to  allow 
me  to  care  for  my  own  study.    I  may  assure  you 


8  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

that  whenever  this  room  really  needs  cleaning, 
I  will  clean  it!  " 

And  he  made  a  large  gesture. 

It  was  more  than  a  month  thereafter  before  she 
had  ventured  to  disobey  these  precise  commands. 
To  one  brought  up  in  the  straight  and  narrow  way 
of  New  England  thrift  and  order  the  picturesque 
confusion  of  the  minister's  study  was  almost  more 
than  one  could  support  with  outward  calm.  But 
when  thickly  overlaid  with  dust  and  the  product 
of  the  industrious  spider  it  became  positively 
unendurable.  With  Machiavellian  cunning  there- 
fore, and  dire  thoroughness,  Mrs.  Pettibone 
swept,  cleaned,  and  dusted  her  husband's  study, 
sparing  not  a  single  cobweb,  nor  the  smallest  par- 
ticle of  dust.  After  which  she  had  restored  (as 
she  thought)  everything  to  its  accustomed  dis- 
order. 

But  the  minister  knew  better.  An  experimental 
morning  convinced  him  that  his  privacy  had  again 
been  invaded.  Most  certainly  he  had  not  located 
Simpkins'  Commentary  on  the  Pauline  Epistles 
to  the  left  of  his  chair,  and  buried  it  moreover 
beneath  a  staggering  load  of  mediaeval  histories. 
Simpkins  was  a  most  useful  man,  always  to  be 
kept  atop  the  pile  on  the  armchair  at  his  right. 
Other  subtle,  but  incriminating  evidence  cropped 
up  on  every  hand. 

The  Reverend  Silas  gazed  narrowly  at  his 
wife's  unruffled  front  when  he  emerged  at  noon  in 


THE  HIDDEN  PICTURE  9 

response  to  her  cheerful  summons  to  the  midday- 
meal. 

Did  she  really  suppose  she  had  deceived  him  I 

But  the  dinner  was  very  good,  which  might  be 
set  down  as  an  extenuating  circumstance.  He 
felt  his  just  indignation  cooling,  as  it  were,  while 
he  partook  of  a  delectable  pudding  compounded 
of  the  humble  bread-crumb,  to  which  she  was 
serving  him  a  second  time  with  a  shy  smile  of 
triumph. 

' '  My  dear  Philura, ' '  he  said,  ' '  you  are  a  very 
superior  and — er — a  very  dear  little  hypocrite. 
I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you  so.  But  it  is  quite 
true,  you  know." 

"  Why — Mis-ter  Pettibone!  "  was  all  she  could 
say.  Yet  her  eyes  sank  guiltily  under  his  accusing 
gaze.    "  I — I  can't  think  what  you " 

*  *  Yes ;  you  can, — and  you  do, ' '  he  corrected  her, 
calmly.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  the  stars  in  their 
courses  must  not  be  interfered  with?  Didn't  I 
explain  how  a  woman  with  a  broom  and  dustcloth 
would  doubtless  work  irremediable  havoc  in  a 
revolving  nebula?  And  didn't  you  promise  that 
you  would  never — never " 

"  No,  Silas;  no!  "  She  shook  her  head.  **  I 
didn't  promise  you  I  would  never  clean  your 
study.    How  could  I?  " 

"  Well,"  he  conceded,  ''  it  amounted  to  the 
same  thing.    I  forbade  it." 

She  was  mute. 


10  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

**  You  won't  do  it  again?  " 

She  drew  a  long,  quivering  breath. 

*'  I — I'm  afraid  I'll — ^have  to;  if — if — it  gets 
too  d-d-dirty!  " 

She  was  in  his  arms  the  next  minute.  But,  all 
the  same — once  she  had  done  crying  comfortably 
on  his  shoulder — ^he  repeated  his  former  prohibi- 
tion, with  various  impressive  addenda,  calculated 
to  penetrate  and  suitably  influence  a  mind  grown 
(Mr.  Pettibone  could  not  heljD  thinking)  somewhat 
inflexible  and  unyielding  during  the  years  of  her 
solitary  maidenhood. 

This  was  the  last  time  the  difficult  subject  of 
the  study  had  been  broached  between  them.  The 
sacred  precincts  had  remained  to  the  abstracted 
gaze  of  the  minister  in  precisely  the  state  of  de- 
lightful disorder  in  which,  from  day  to  day  and 
from  week  to  week,  he  had  left  them.  Strangely 
enough  it  had  not  required  even  the  occasional 
and  desultory  use  of  the  feather-duster,  which  he 
kept  hanging  on  a  peg  in  his  closet.  A  feather- 
duster,  Mr.  Pettibone  had  discovered,  speedily 
and  easily  restored  a  fictitious  appearance  of 
cleanliness  without  the  devastating  processes 
known  and  approved  by  his  various  house- 
keepers. 

But  the  initial  experience  of  Adam — to  say 
nothing  of  countless  crucial  instances  of  a  later 
date — has  proved  conclusively  that  while  man 
may  be  the  mate  of  woman  he  is  certainly  no 


THE  HIDDEN  PICTURE  11 

match  for  lier,  in  her  diligent,  inexorable,  almost 
unperceived  control  of  the  smaller  things  of  life. 
The  Jesuitical  quality,  as  somebody  has  observed, 
is  essentially  feminine.  A  carefully  compiled  list 
of  the  books  to  be  found  in  various  heaps  to  the 
right  and  left,  also  at  the  front  and  rear  of  her 
lord's  writing-table;  a  discreet  as  well  as  discrim- 
inating elimination  of  waste  paper;  and  the  rest 
was  easy. 

To-day,  with  Mr.  Pettibone  innocently  and 
safely  occupied  at  the  Missionary  Convention  in 
Boston,  the  unprincipled  Mrs.  Pettibone  fairly 
turned  the  study  inside  out.  Rugs  and  curtains 
fluttered  merrily  in  the  wind  of  the  back  yard; 
while  learned  commentators,  hairsplitting  theo- 
logians, and  sober  church-historians  were  uncere- 
moniously shaken,  flapped,  clapped,  and  rubbed 
free  from  dust.  Even  the  sacred  desk  itself  was 
dismantled  down  to  its  shabby  baize  cover,  and  the 
blotting-pad,  originally  of  a  fresh  green  colour,  but 
long  since  defaced  with  the  superfluous  ink  of  un- 
counted sermons  came  in  for  a  vigorous  assault 
calculated  to  dislodge  the  most  secretly  intrenched 
particle  of  the  hated  dust. 

And  just  here  an  unkind  Fate,  Chance — it  were 
an  obvious  impiety  to  call  it  Providence — 
maliciously  (or  otherwise)  brought  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone's  ardent  activities  to  a  sudden  halt.  For 
under  the  impact  of  her  determined  little  hand  a 
photograph    suddenly   slipped    from   its    hiding 


12  THE  HEART  OF  PHH^URA 

place.  It  had  been  inserted  well  out  of  sight  be- 
j;ween  two  sheets  of  blotting-paper. 

It  was  a  small  card-portrait  of  a  woman, 
pressed  in  a  gown  fashioned  after  the  mode  of  a 
previous  decade.  Mrs.  Pettibone  picked  it  up  and 
gazed  at  it  with  a  mingling  of  emotions  she  made 
no  effort  to  formulate  or  control.  The  youthful 
face  which  looked  back  at  her  from  the  somewhat 
dimmed  and  yellowed  card  was  very  sweet  and 
mild;  the  eyes,  large  and  dark,  were  shadowed 
with  long  lashes,  and  the  mouth,  set  in  wistful 
curves,  seemed  to  implore  the  beholder  to  be 
kind.  About  the  long,  white  throat  a  scarf  of  lace 
was  knotted  loosely,  and  from  behind  one  ear  (the 
arrangement  obviously  the  careful  work  of  the 
photographer)  hung  a  long,  full  curl  of  dark  hair. 
Beneath  was  written  in  the  minister's  firm,  neat 
hand:    ''  Mary,  April  2,  1893." 

Like  one  in  a  hushed  dream,  wherein  a  vague 
yet  aching  grief  is  overlaid  with  calm,  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone swiftly  and  noiselessly  restored  the  writing- 
table  to  its  wonted  condition,  with  books,  pam- 
phlets, papers,  and  letter-file  contesting  every 
available  inch  of  space.  She  allowed  herself  no 
second  glance  at  the  picture;  but  slipped  it  back 
at  once  between  the  sheets  of  the  blotter,  feeling 
curiously  awed — ^yet,  withal,  sorry  and  ashamed, 
like  one  who  has  unwittingly  blundered  into  the 
presence  of  the  sacred  dead  in  the  house  of  a 
stranger.    Mr.  Pettibone  had  never  but  once  re- 


THE  HIDDEN  PICTURE  13 

ferred  to  his  dead  wife  in  their  talks  together. 
But  she  knew  now  what  before  she  had  only 
timidly  guessed :  he  had  not — and  could  not  forget 
the  wife  of  his  youth.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Wessels  was  more  than  unusually  loqua- 
cious and  companionable  that  noon,  while  Mrs. 
Pettibone  was  preparing  the  lunch,  of  a  variety 
and  toothsomeness  especially  calculated  to  ap- 
pease that  lady's  capricious  appetite. 

*'  If  you're  a-fixin'  that  p'tato  fer  me,"  she 
observed, ''  leave  out  the  pepper  an'  put  in  plenty 
o'  butter.  Pepper  don't  never  agree  with  my 
stomick.  An',  as  I  tell  Wessels,  if  a  body's 
stomitk  gives  out  it's  all  day  with  'em. — No;  Mis* 
Pettibone,  the  clo'es  didn't  dry  a  bit  good  t'day, 
fer  all  the  wind;  so  I  ain't  done  a  stroke  o'  ironin.* 
I  c'n  rub  off  some  o'  the  plain  pieces  this  after- 
noon, if  you — Oh,  you're  goin'  out,  you  say? 
Why,  you  look  all  beat  out,  what  with  your  sweep- 
in,'  and  dustin'  an'  cleanin'  all  them  dirty  rugs. 
I  had  an  awful  good  mind  t'  whirl  in  and  help; 
but,  think's  I,  she'd  ruther  I'd  git  this  washin' 
out;  so  I  stuck  to  m'  rubbin'. — Be  sure  an'  have 
the  tea  hot.  Ef  there's  anythin'  I  hate  an'  de- 
spise it's  ivarm  tea.  It  kind  o'  turns  a  body's 
stomick,  same  's  it  says  in  Rev'lations:  things 
that's  neither  hot  ner  cold,  but  jest  lukewarm, 
makes  a  puss'n  feel  like  spittin'  'em  right  out  their 
mouth.  Le'  me  see,  was  it  th'  'Postle  Paul,  er  the 
Lord  that  felt  that-a-way?    I  kind  o'  ferget.    But 


14  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

wMchever  of  'em  it  was,  I'm  built  the  very  same 
way.  I  like  my  tea  hot!  Where 'd  you  say  you 
was  goin'  this  afternoon?  The  Ladies'  Aid  don't 
meet  a  Monday — heh? — Oh!  An'  Mr.  Pettibone 
— Where's  he  gone? — Oh!  Well;  as  I  said  this 
mornin',  I  do  hope  an'  pray  he  don't  git  smashed 
up  on  the  train,  er  run  down  by  one  o'  them 
automobiles.  My!  ain't  they  awful!  If  Wessels 
hadn't  fell  off  the  roof  an'  hurted  'is  insides  the 
way  he  done,  like  es  not  he'd  a-been  run  over  an' 
killed  b'  now.  Then  I'd  'a  been  a  lone  widow, 
with  four  small  childern  t'  look  after;  '  Louisa,' 
says  Wessels, — whenever  I  git  fretful  over  him 
not  workin' — '  half  a  'usban'  is  better'*!  no 
'usban','  he  says.  An'  I  guess  that's  right. 
'Course,  Wessels,  he  ain't  no  real  good,  settin' 
all  day  an'  smokin'  'is  pipe  b'  th'  stove.  But  I 
guess  I'd  miss  'im  if  he  wa'n't  there.  Knocl^  on 
wood! — You  don't  believe  in  it — heh?  W'y,  Mis' 
Pettibone,  I  wouldn't  no  more  neglect  knockin'  on 
wood  than  anythin'!  I  c'd  name  hunderds  o' 
times  when  if  I'd  f ergot  t'  knock  on  wood  I  don't 
know  where  I'd  'a  be'n.  As  I  was  tellin'  you,  you 
look  all  beat  out." 

She  approached  her  weather-beaten  face  close  to 
Mrs.  Pettibone 's.  "I'm  willin'  t'  bet,"  she 
added,  impressively,  ''  you've  said  er  done  some- 
thin'  reckless  'n'  f ergot  t'  knock  on  wood." 


CHAPTER  n 

APRILING 

The  clock  on  the  cliurch-tower  was  striking  the 
hour  of  three  when  Mrs.  Pettibone  locked  the  door 
of  the  parsonage  behind  her,  with  a  pleasant  con- 
sciousness of  the  spotless  order  reigning  within, 
and  of  the  willow-basket,  filled  with  tidy  white 
rolls  against  the  morrow's  ironing.  Mr.  Petti- 
bone would  not  arrive  from  Boston  before  seven^ 
She  had,  therefore,  three  hours  of  well-earned 
leisure  before  her. 

What  use  to  make  of  her  brief  holiday  Mrs. 
Pettibone  had  not  yet  decided,  as  she  hurried 
down  the  long  street  under  the  tossing  maple 
blossoms.  Always  there  were  parish  calls  to  be 
made,  as  Mrs.  Buckthorn  and  other  influential 
ladies  of  the  church  had  kindly  pointed  out. 

"  We've  done  without  a  paster's  wife  for  seven 
long  years,"  Mrs.  Scrimger  reminded  her,  "  and 
I  will  say  Mr.  Pettibone  has  been  faithful.  But  I 
guess  there's  some  'at  would  just  as  soon  he'd 
stayed  single.  It  made  it  kind  o'  interestin'  to 
widows  an'  single  ladies,  even  if  he  didn't  pay 
'em  no  special  attention.  I  don't  know  as  you've 
noticed  it,  but  there's  several  I  c'd  name  that 

15 


16  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

hasn't  darkened  the  doors  of  the  church  since  you 
was  married." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  passed  in  meditative  review  two 
or  three  old  ladies,  who  had,  to  use  their  own 
forceful  phrase,  '^  been  housed  up  all  winter." 
Or  perhaps  she  ought  to  improve  the  opportunity 
by  calling  on  the  Widow  Grover,  who  had  not 
for  more  than  a  year  been  present  at  prayer- 
meeting,  where  once  she  had  been  a  conspicuously 
bright  and  shining  light.  It  was  true  that  the 
iWidow  Grover  had  not,  during  a  like  period,  called 
at  the  parsonage.  But  no  doubt  it  was  her  duty 
(as  the  wife  of  the  pastor)  to  present,  as  it  were, 
the  blameless  sacrifice  of  her  shrinking  person 
upon  that  lady's  hair-cloth  sofa. 

She  sighed,  as  with  guilty  haste  she  passed  the 
corner  of  the  street  where  dwelt  the  Widow 
Grover.  Then,  almost  before  she  was  aware  of 
it,  the  houses  of  the  village,  which  had  appeared 
to  level  curious  and  observant  eyes  upon  her, 
melted  quite  away,  and  she  was  in  the  open  coun- 
try, with  the  wild  wind  blowing  all  about  her,  and 
brilliant  masses  of  snowy  cloud  overhead,  shining 
against  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky.  There  were 
song-sparrows  flitting  athwart  the  brown  pas- 
tures, and  the  piercing  sweet  voices  of  meadow 
larks,  calling  and  answering  from  distant  fields, 
where  already  the  naked  earth  was  upturned  to 
the  fruitful  sun. 
.    The  road  wound  steeply  upward  in  wide  curves 


APRILING  17 

from  the  lap  of  the  valley,  where  lay  the  village 
of  Innisfield,  its  rows  of  houses  shining  warmly 
amid  the  leafless  trees.  Almost  at  her  feet — 
or  so  it  seemed  to  the  woman  on  the  hillside — 
the  steeple  of  the  Presbyterian  church  pointed 
skyward,  like  a  thin,  white  finger.  Near  it  she 
could  just  make  out  the  dull  brown  walls  of  the 
parsonage,  half  hidden  in  shrubbery. 

Then,  quite  calmly  and  simply,  she  found  her- 
self thinking  of  the  hidden  picture.  He  had  not 
meant  she  should  see  it.  But  from  henceforth 
she  would  be  aware  of  it,  like  an  invisible  presence 
in  the  room.  Did  he  often  take  it  from  its  con- 
cealment, she  wondered?  And  did  he  still  mourn 
in  secret  over  the  dark,  softly-fringed  eyes,  and 
the  sweet,  pensive  mouth  with  its  wistful  appeal? 

She  sought  diligently  among  clouded  memories 
of  the  time  when  she  herself  had  met  and  spoken 
with — Mary.  She  dared  to  call  her  this  to  herself. 
Once,  she  remembered,  Mrs.  Pettibone  had  come 
to  church  wearing  a  very  beautiful  blue  silk  dress, 
and  a  hat  with  a  plume  of  dark  blue  drooping 
almost  to  her  shoulder.  All  during  the  sermon 
she  had  feasted  her  eyes  on  the  graceful  figure. 
At  the  close  of  the  service  she  had  hurried  down 
from  the  choir  loft,  hoping  for  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  the  minister's  wife  as  she  passed 
out  of  church.  But  Mrs.  Pettibone  was  already 
walking  away  beside  her  husband,  who  bent  his 
tall  head  to  listen  to  something  she  was  saying. 


18  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

Another  time  she  had  ventured  to  carry  a 
bunch  of  the  earliest  arbutus  to  the  parsonage. 
Mrs.  Pettibone  was  ailing;  she  had  not  been  to 
church  for  a  long  time.  The  minister  himself  had 
admitted  the  visitor  and  conducted  her  at  once 
to  his  study,  where  the  invalid  was  lying  on  a 
sofa  near  the  window. 

''  Just  see,  Mary,  what  little  Miss  Philura  has 
brought  you !  "  he  said ; — ' '  Arbutus ! — and  only 
this  morning  you  were  longing  for  some." 

And  Miss  Philura,  blushing  very  much,  and 
feeling  herself  very  plain  and  insignificant  under 
the  bright  dark  eyes  of  the  minister's  wife,  had 
surrendered  the  fragrant  bunch  of  pink  and  white 
blossoms  into  fingers  almost  as  fragile  and  deli- 
cate. She  remembered  still  the  passion  of  delight 
which  beamed  in  the  thin  face,  and  the  low  cry  of 
pleasure,  as  she  inhaled  the  exquisite  wild  breath, 
of  the  flowers, — which,  in  truth,  is  unlike  and  far 
sweeter  than  any  other  sweet  odour  under  the 
sun. 

Was  it  the  memory  of  this  little  scene  out  of 
her  vanished  past?  Or  did  she  indeed  catch  the 
subtle  fragrance  of  the  hidden  flowers?  There 
were  woods  near,  tall  chestnuts  and  hickories 
clothing  the  crest  of  the  hill  behind  the  old  Eggles- 
ton  farm.  No  one  lived  in  the  house  now,  and 
there  was  sure  to  be  arbutus  in  bloom  on  the 
sun-warmed  slope  beyond  the  orchard.  The  sun 
was  still  an  hour  above  the  horizon;  she  would 


APEILING  19 

have  time,  before  hurrying  home  to  prepare  the 
late  supper. 

It  was  delightfully  still  and  warm  under  the  big 
trees;  the  wind  had  fallen  to  a  low  murmur, 
ineffably  peaceful  and  soothing;  under  foot  the 
dry  leaves  rustled  pleasantly,  sending  up  clean, 
penetrating  odours  of  hidden  mosses  and  the  good 
black  earth  teeming  with  waking  life.  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone  walked  slowly,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the 
ground;  here,  perhaps,  beneath  the  shelter  of 
sweeping  evergreen  boughs;  or,  yonder,  where 
the  sun  filtered  through  tangled  branches  of  beach 
and  hickory.  Dropping  to  her  knees  she  drew 
aside  the  warm  coverlid  nature  had  spread  above 
her  darlings.  Then  a  low  cry  of  rapture  burst 
from  her  lips.  All  along  the  ground  lay  the 
arbutus  in  long,  straggling  sprays,  the  small 
rough  leaves  of  dull  green  starred  with  half-open 
clusters,  white  as  the  vanished  snows,  rosy  pink 
as  a  baby's  crumpled  palm. 

The  true  lover  is  she  who  gathers  arbutus 
frugally,  severing  the  tough  stem  with  due  regard 
for  the  shallow,  fragile  roots;  mindful  too  of  the 
day  when  the  sweetest  of  all  wild  flowers  will  be 
only  a  memory.  It  was  no  greedy,  grasping  hand 
that  gathered  arbutus  on  that  far  hillside.  Mrs. 
Pettibone's  work-worn  fingers  touched  the  deli- 
cate blossoms  tenderly,  detaching  the  fragrant 
sprays  with  a  gentle  firmness  that  destroyed  no 
smallest  rootlet.    Then,  mindful  of  the  reddening 


20  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

sun,  presaging  a  frosty  nigM,  she  drew  the  cover- 
ing leaves  over  the  unopened  buds. 

As  she  rose  at  last,  blossom-laden  and  meditat- 
ing swift  flight  to  the  kitchen  of  the  parsonage, 
where  (she  feared)  the  fire  might  be  dying,  a  low 
sound  as  of  suppressed  weeping  came  to  her  ears. 
For  an  instant  her  heart  beat  suffocatingly  in 
her  throat.  Then  all  at  once  she  saw  coming 
toward  her,  between  the  stems  of  the  trees,  a 
girl. 

The  youth  of  the  approaching  figure  was  at 
once  apparent.  Something  in  its  reckless  aban- 
donment to  grief;  its  wild  hands  beating  the  air, 
suggested  the  futile  rage  of  an  angry  child, 
thwarted  in  some  eager  desire,  or  too  harshly 
punished  for  some  trivial  fault.  Disjointed  words 
mingled  with  the  sobbing  came  distinctly  to  the 
startled  listener. 

'^'11  not  bear  it— I'll  not!  I'll  not!  I  can't— 
I  won't!  I — I'll  run  away — anywhere — any- 
where!   I'll  kill  myself  before  I  submit " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  came  forward  quickly.  Ob- 
viously this  was  only  a  child ;  but  a  child  in  deep 
trouble. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  resolutely,  though  her 
voice  shook  a  little  with  the  fright  of  that  un- 
looked-for apparition.  *'  What  is  the  matter'? 
What  has — happened?  " 

The  girl  stopped  short,  staring  with  startled 
eyes  at  the  small  grey  figure  which  seemed  to 


APRILING  21 

have  stepped  forth  from  the  greyer  boles  of  the 
hickories. 

''  Who  are  you?  "  she  demanded  angrily. 
"  "What  are  you  doing?  How  dare  you  come 
here — spying — and — and  listening?  Did  you — 
did  you  hear  what  I  said?  " 

"  I  heard  enough  to  know  that  you  are  in 
trouble  of  some  sort.  Can't  I  help  you — if,  per- 
haps, you  have  lost  your  way,  or " 

^'  Lost  my  way!  How  could  I  lose  my  way!  I 
live  there." 

She  pointed  to  the  house  halfway  down  the 
slope. 

*'  Oh,  I  thought  the  place  was  unoccupied," 
faltered  the  minister's  little  wife.  *'  It  has  been 
for  so  long,  you  know.  I — was  just  gathering 
some  arbutus;  but  I  haven't  taken  it  all.  Won't 
you  take  this?  " 

The  girl  refused  the  flowers  with  a  reckless 
gesture.    Then  she  turned  sharply. 

"  I  supposed  I  could  be  alone — up  here,"  she 
muttered,  as  she  moved  away. 

*' Won't  you  tell  me  your  name,  my  dear?  " 
urged  Mrs.  Pettibone.  "  Eeally,  I  am  very  sorry 
— but  I  only  wish  you'd  tell  me — let  me — help  you. 
I  know  how  it  feels  to  be — lonesome,"  she  added, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration.  "■  If  you  are  living  in 
the  old  Eggleston  place  you  would  be  sure  to  find 
it  lonely — just  at  first.  But  in  summer  it  is  beau- 
tiful." 


22  THE  HEART  OF  PHHjURA 

The  girl  had  paused,  half  turning  her  head. 

''  Very  soon  now  the  orchards  will  be  all  in 
bloom,"  went  on  Mrs.  Pettibone,  in  her  gentle 
voice,  ^'  and  there  are  wild  flowers — quantities 
of  them  all  about:  violets  and  pink  azalias  and 
columbine  and  trilliums.  Oh,  you  will  be  sure  to 
like  it;  and — if  you  don't  mind  telling  me  your 
name,  my  dear?  " 

The  girl  gulped  down  a  recurrent  sob. 

'^  I — I  shall  never  like  it  here,"  she  muttered, 
her  red  mouth  drooping  sullenly.  "  I  hate  the 
country.  But  mother  insisted — I  say  she  had  no 
right  to  bring  me  here,  when  I " 

* '  But  surely  you  '11  like  it  better  after  a  while, ' ' 
persisted  Mrs.  Pettibone,  soothingly.  "  It  isn't 
far  to  the  village,  where  there  are  plenty  of  young 
people.  You'll  be  going  to  school,  perhaps,  and 
then " 

The  girl 's  short  upper  lip  lifted,  trembled,  as  if 
she  were  on  the  verge  of  a  laugh. 

"  School!  "  she  echoed,  scornfully.  "  I  see  you 
think  I  am  a  child.    Well,  I'm  not." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  sighed  vaguely;  then  smiled. 

''You  didn't — tell  me  your  name,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

'*  My  name  is  Sylvia — Sylvia  Cruden,  and  I'm 
— married !  I  was  crying  because — Oh,  because  I 
felt  like  it !  I'd  stayed  in  that  stuffy  old  house  till 
I  couldn't  stand  it  another  minute!  Anybody 
'd  hate  it,  and  the  way  mother " 


APRILING  23 

The  girl  was  halfway  down  the  steep  slope, 
her  angry  words  trailing  behind  her  like  sparks 
from  a  flying  engine.  Mrs.  Pettibone  watched  her 
perplexedly  as  she  plunged  recklessly  through  the 
underbrush  fringing  the  orchard  fence.  A  mo- 
ment later  the  wild  figure  had  disappeared  among 
the  rambling  outbuildings  at  the  rear  of  the  farm- 
house. .  ,  . 

Mr.  Pettibone  was  very  cheerful  and  compan- 
ionable that  night  as  the  two  sat  over  their  be- 
lated tea.  The  convention,  he  told  his  wife,  was 
more  than  usually  interesting.  He  had  thought 
of  her,  while  the  native  missionary  from  India 
was  describing  the  marriage  customs  of  that  far 
country,  and  had  really  wished  he  had  insisted 
upon  her  company  to  Boston. 

'*  Next  time,"  he  concluded,  beaming  kindly 
across  the  space  of  white  table-cloth,  "  I  shall  not 
take  *  no  '  for  an  answer. ' ' 

Later,  while  she  cleared  away  the  supper  things, 
she  heard  him  moving  about  his  study.  Would  he 
notice  the  arbutus  on  the  writing  table,  she  won- 
dered; and  would  he — remember  f 

She  was  setting  the  cups  on  the  pantry  shelf, 
her  fingers  trembling  with  an  emotion  akin  to 
fear,  when  she  heard  his  swift  steji  behind  her. 

*'  Some  dear  little  friend  of  mine  has  been 
Apriling!  "  he  cried  gaily.  ''Was  it  you,  my 
dear?  " 


CHAPTER  III 

TRANSFIGURATION 

' '  Miss  Philuea, — Heaven  bless  her !  ' '  murmured 
the  minister. 

Mr.  Pettibone  had  paused  in  the  slow,  medita- 
tive progress  he  found  most  conducive  to  logical 
thought  to  gaze  smilingly  out  of  his  study  window. 
Bounding  the  bleak  parsonage  yard  was  a  picket 
fence,  innocent  of  paint  these  many  years,  and  on 
its  hither  side  the  small,  stooping  figure  of  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  clad  in  the  shabbiest  of  her  shabby 
gowns,  appeared  exceedingly  busy  with  a  garden 
rake  several  sizes  too  large.  The  minister  could 
already  see  the  green  shoots  of  daffodils  and 
tulips,  aspiring  hopefully  to  the  unfriendly  April 
skies,  while  the  pile  of  sodden  leaves  at  one  side 
of  the  narrow  border  increased  with  every  vigor- 
ous motion  of  the  awkward  tool. 

The  smile  faded  from  Mr.  Pettibone 's  lips;  he 
even  sighed,  vaguely,  as  he  resumed  his  steady 
pacing  of  the  study  floor — down  a  badly  worn 
breadth  of  carpet,  past  his  desk,  heaped  with  ref- 
erence books  and  littered  with  the  loose  leaves  of 
an  incomplete  discourse;  from  thence,  avoiding 
the  crammed  waste-paper  basket  and  with  a  wide 
detour  around  the  ugly  structure  of  cast-iron, 

24 


TRANSFIGURATION  25 

truthfully  called  base-burner,  to  the  equally  worn 
breadth  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 

Here,  in  front  of  the  high,  narrow  shelves, 
stained  in  imitation  of  black  walnut  and  in- 
felicitously  decorated  with  scalloped  strips  of  red 
'*  leatherette  "  affixed  with  rows  of  brass-headed 
nails — the  work  of  the  minister  himself  in  odd 
moments — his  abstracted  gaze  fell  upon  a  sort  of 
oasis  of  fresh  red  and  black  carpet.  It  marked 
the  spot  where  Mrs.  Pettibone  (she  of  the  garden 
rake)  had  thoughtfully  spread  a  rag  rug  of 
chastened  and  inconspicuous  tints.  The  missing 
rug  was  airing  in  the  back  yard;  but  of  course 
the  minister  hadn't  noticed.  He  surveyed  the 
vivid  patch  of  carpet  beneath  his  slippered  feet 
with  vague  discomfort.  The  staring  colours  in 
close  juxtaposition  appeared  singularly  disturb- 
ing to  his  present  line  of  reasoning.  He  stared 
frowningly  at  the  jumble  of  geometric  figures  of 
brilliant  red  on  their  black  background — or  stay, 
could  not  the  design  be  interpreted  as  black  figures 
on  a  red  ground?  Either,  he  concluded,  was,  if 
possible,  more  objectionable  than  the  other. 

The  Ladies'  Aid  Society  (always  written  with 
capital  letters)  had  bought  the  carpet,  ''  taking 
money  from  the  unsaved  in  heathen  lands,"  to 
quote  the  fervid  protest  of  Mrs.  Deaconess  Buck- 
thorn ;  had  sewed  the  breadths  in  solemn  conclave. 
After  which  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  still  j^iously  protest- 
ant,  had  helped  Electa  Pratt  to  nail  it  firmly  to 


26  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

the  floor.  All  this  had  taken  place  on  the  occa- 
sion  of  the  pastor's  marriage  to  Philura  Rice,  last 
November.  And  now  here  was  the  red  and  black 
carpet,  betraying  the  minister's  idle  pedestrian 
habits  to  every  keen-eyed  parishioner. 

''  If  Mr.  Pettibone  wants  t'  tromp,"  Mrs. 
Scrimger  had  observed  acidly  to  Electa  Pratt, 
* '  why  in  creation  don 't  he  tromp  'round  the  par- 
ish? He's  fallen  off  in  his  pastoral  visitin'  some- 
thin'  scand'lous  sence  he  got  married  t'  Philura 
Rice!  " 

Whereat  Miss  Pratt  had  giggled  disagreeably. 

*'  Us  church  members  oughtn't  t'  expect  too 
much  of  Mr.  Pettibone,"  she  pointed  out.  ^'  I 
guess  he's  kind  of  busy  'round  the  house  most  the 
time. ' ' 

She  nodded  her  befrizzled  head  in  face  of 
shocked  incredulity. 

''  You  don't  mean  t'  tell  me?  " 

'^  Uh-huh!  Ma  saw  him  shakin'  the  parlour 
rugs  last  Friday;  an'  only  yeste'day  I  saw  him 
through  the  window  waterin'  her  house  plants!  " 

''  Well,  I  never!  Somebody  'd  ought  to  speak 
t'  Philura." 

''  That's  what  I  sez  t'  ma.  But  ma  sez  t'  me, 
*  I'd  let  somebody  else  do  it,  Lecty,  if  I  was  you.'  " 

By  now  the  minister  in  his  peregrinations  had 
again  reached  the  study  window,  from  whence  he 
had  so  whimsically  apostrophised  the  lady  with 
the  rake.    ''Miss  Philura"  indeed!     It  wasn't 


TRANSFIGURATION  27 

even  proper.  After  a  brief  period  of  indecision 
the  minister  removed  his  doublegown — that  is 
what  he  called  it;  and  it  was  double,  being  com- 
posed of  faded  maroon-coloured  flannel  within  and 
sprawling  palm  leaves  of  divers  colours  on  its  outer 
surface.  Having  divested  himself  of  this  priestly 
garment,  Mr.  Pettibone  clad  his  spare  person  in 
his  third-best  preaching-coat,  clapped  an  ancient 
felt  hat,  plucked  from  the  top  of  the  book-case, 
on  his  rumpled  hair,  and  flung  open  the  door, 
which  connected  his  sanctum  with  the  outer  world. 

"  Well,  my  dear!" 

The  small  person  with  the  big  garden-tool 
paused  in  her  labours,  turning  toward  him  a  smil- 
ing face,  pinkened  with  the  rude  buffetings  of  the 
April  wind. 

''  The  daffodils  are  all  in  bud!  "  she  told  him. 

He  bent  his  short-sighted  gaze  upon  the  sparse 
border,  where  clustered  green  spears  were  pierc- 
ing the  half-frozen  mould. 

"  Budded?  "  he  repeated,  unbelievingly.  ''  Isn't 
it  too  early  to  be  looking  for  flowers,  my  dearl  " 

She  vouchsafed  him  a  pitying  glance. 

* '  Look !  ' '  she  cried  and  parted  the  thick  dark 
leaves  with  her  reddened  fingers.  *^  Do  you  see, 
way  do\\Ti  deep,  those  little  pointed  buds?  " 

Such  a  passion  of  suppressed  eagerness  shook 
the  low  voice,  that  involuntarily  he  turned  puzzled, 
examining  eyes  upon  her.  She  was  still  stooping 
over  the  inchoate  daffodils,  her  mouth,  faintly  red, 


28  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

set  in  wistful  curves.  Mrs.  Pettibone  was  not  in 
her  first  youth,  as  everyone  in  Innisfield  knew, 
being  well  into  her  thirties  when  she  married  the 
minister.  Electa  Pratt,  indeed,  had  been  heard  to 
declare  that  Philura  Rice  was  thirty-six,  if  she 
was  a  day.  But  Silas  Pettibone  was  not  thinking 
of  the  delicate  lines  about  his  wife's  down-drooped 
eyes,  nor  of  the  threads  of  silver  in  the  soft  waves 
of  her  brown  hair.  He  was  wondering,  in  dazed, 
helpless  man-fashion,  if,  after  all,  Philura  was  un- 
happy. It  had  been  something  of  an  experiment, 
this  marriage  of  theirs.  Nobody,  it  seemed,  had 
approved  of  it.  This  much  had  become  increas- 
ingly apparent  since  the  day  of  their  return  to 
the  parsonage  of  the  Innisfield  Presbyterian 
church. 

Philura  Rice,  living  quietly  alone  in  the  dilapi- 
dated little  dwelling  of  her  dead  and  gone  for- 
bears, had  attracted  neither  praise  nor  blame  from 
the  busy  maids  and  matrons  of  the  parish. 

She  was  only  "  Miss  Philura,"  willing — even 
anxious  to  work  on  committees,  pass  refreshments 
at  church  teas,  labour  uncomplainingly  as  teacher 
of  badly-behaved  children  in  Sunday  school.  But 
all  this  had  been  changed,  and  by  his  own  deliber- 
ate act. 

The  minister  was  listening  abstractedly  to  what 
his  wife  was  saying: 

*'  I  couldn't  help  thinking,  Silas,  those  little 
round  buds   are  like — like   tiny  babies   cuddled 


TRANSFIGURATION  29 

close  and  wrapped  warm  next  to  their  mother's 
heart." 

*' Yes,  yes;  my  dear,"  he  assented,  ''"a  very 
pretty  idea ;  and  you  are  quite  right ;  I  think'  we 
may  count  on  an  earlier  spring  than  usual.  Let 
me  see,  this — er — is  the  tenth;  isn't  it?  " 

"  No,  dear ;  it  is  the  twelfth,"  she  corrected  him, 
gently. 

The  she  raised  herself  with  a  sigh. 

**  I  must  go  in,"  she  said.  '*  There  is  a  meet- 
ing of  the  Mothers'  Club  at  the  public  school  this 
afternoon." 

"  But  why  a  Mothers'  Club?  "  he  asked,  a 
slight  frown  gathering  between  his  brows.  "  I 
should  think  you  had  enough  to  do  without " 

"  The  women  asked  me  to  join,"  she  told  him, 

''  and  I Really,  Silas,  I  like  to  go.   There  are 

questions  of — of  interest  to  be  discussed." 

' '  To  mothers  of  school  children — yes, ' '  he 
agreed.    ''  But  you,  of  course " 

Something  in  her  look  halted  his  words,  expres- 
sive as  they  were  of  simple,  unquestioned  fact.  A 
flood  of  hot  colour  surged  into  her  averted  face. 

''  Oh,   of  course,   I "   she   echoed   faintly. 

"  But,  you  see,  dear,  I  thought  I  ought  to  be  in- 
terested, since  so  many  of  the  children  from  our 
parish  are  in  the  school.  And  on  that  ac- 
count  " 

*'  H'm,"  he  commented  dubiously.    ''  Well;  if 


30  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

you  like  it,  my  dear,  there's  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  But  I  cannot  consent  to  have  you  running 
hither  and  yon  at  everybody's  beck  and  call.  You 
must  remember,  Miss  Philura,  you  married  me, 
not  the  parish." 

She  smiled  up  at  him — he  was  a  tall  man  and 
she  a  little  woman — the  hot  colour  in  her  face 
slowly  subsiding  into  the  delicate  wild-rose  flush 
he  loved  to  see  there. 

^'  It  would  certainly  be  dreadful  to  marry  the 
parish,"  she  declared.  "I'd  rather  live  and  die 
an  old  maid." 

The  mirth  suddenly  dropped  out  of  his  face. 
He  looked  down  at  her  anxiously. 

*'  If  you  should  ever  really  think  that,"  he 
mused  in  a  low  voice.  ' '  If  you  should  be  sorry — 
I've  been  wondering  lately " 

"  About  me?  "  she  queried.  ''  You've  been 
wondering? " 

"  If  you  are  really  quite  happy.  If,  after  all, 
I  wasn't  wholly  selfish  to  bring  you  here.  This 
isn't  an  easy  parish;  and,  collectively,  I  believe  it 
has  an  ogreish  notion  it  has  married  you — ^blood, 
bones,  and  body." 

Her  blue  eyes,  full  of  gentle  raillery,  met  his. 

"  You  know  you're  talking  nonsense!  "  she  ac- 
cused him.  ''  I  was  just  a  lonely,  unhappy  old 
maid,  when  you — wonderful  you — came  to  me, 
right  out  of  the  Encircling  Good.    Oh,  what  a  sur- 


TRANSFIGURATION  31 

prise  you  were! — And  happy?  Of  course  I'm 
happy; — living  with  you,  seeing  you  every 
day " 

"  Yes,  and  working  for  me  like  a  slave,"  he 
interrupted  ruefully. ' '  Cooking  and  scrubbing  for 
me,  patching  and  darning  and  the  rest;  it's  no 
sinecure.  I  know  that  much,  and  often  you  look 
very  tired.  And  besides  all  this,  the  endless  meet- 
ings and  committees  and " 

"  Stop!  "  she  cried,  a  wonderful  rose  of  love 
blooming  in  her  face.  He  had  witnessed  that 
subtle  transfiguration  of  its  gentle  commonplace 
twice  before ;  once  when  he  told  her  he  loved  her, 
and  again  on  the  day  of  their  marriage. 

*'  Don't  you  know,"  she  said;  "it  is  just  that 
— the  work,  the — being  tired,  yes ;  even  the  parish 
— for  you — that  makes  me  happy?  Oh,  if  I  could 
only  be  something  greater,  grander,  more  worth 
while — for  you!  " 

A  swift  lightning  flash  from  the  shy  virginal 
depths  of  her  soul  to  unplummeted  deeps  of  his 
passed  between  them. 

*'  Do  you  mean?  "  he  asked,  his  voice  suddenly 
shaken  and  eager;  "  Am  I  to  understand,  my  dear, 
that  you " 

She  shook  her  head.  The  light  and  colour,  so 
suddenly  kindled  within  her,  subsided  as  swiftly, 
leaving  her  middle-aged  face  quiet,  even  dull,  like 
a  sober  landscape  from  which  the  sun  has  with- 
drawn itself. 


32  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

''  No,"  she  said,  without  pretence  of  misunder- 
standing his  agitated  look  and  gesture.  ''  There 
is  no  hope  of  that,  I  fear." 

Her  small,  roughened  fingers  closed  across  her 
breast,  as  if  she  could  no  longer  bear  his  gaze, 
bent  to  scrutinise  its  unveiled  secret. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   SPOT   WHERE   SPIRITS   BLEND" 


<< 


I  wonder/'  said  Mrs.  Pettibone  timidly,  ''  if 
you  would  tell  me  something,  honest  and  truly, 
black  and  bluely,  as  the  children  say.  Or  at 
least,"  she  corrected  herself,  "  as  they  used  to 
say  when  I  was  a  child.  It  was  a  long  time  ago, 
and  perhaps " 

*'  Come,  come,  Miss  Philura,"  protested  the 
minister,  who  was  in  the  act  of  struggling  into  his 
greatcoat,  a  very  shabby  coat,  by  the  way. 
*'  You're  not  old,  and  you  never  will  be !  And  I'll 
tell  you  anything  and  everything  you  want  to 
know,  up  to  the  limit  of  my  knowledge,  cross  my 
heart  an'  hope  t'  die,  as  they  used  to  say  when  I 
was  a  boy,  'way  back  in  the  last  century." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  his  wife,  who  stood  wait- 
ing for  him,  clad  in  her  waterproof  and  second- 
best  hat.  She  coloured  becomingly,  as  her  hus- 
band surveyed  her  with  smiling  eyes.  In  truth 
those  delicate,  girlish  blushes,  and  the  trick  she 
had  of  lowering  her  lashes  before  his  direct  gaze 
lent  a  perennially  youthful  look  to  her  small  face. 

It  was  Thursday  evening,  and  as  the  two 
stepped  from  the  shelter  of  their  porch  large  blobs 
of  wet  snow,  like  pallid  hands  reaching  down  out 

33 


34  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

of  the  darkness,  smote  against  tlieir  faces.  Two 
or  three  church  bells,  unattuned  as  the  rival 
doctrines  they  strove  to  voice,  were  tolling  dis- 
mally. 

''I'm  afraid  we  shan't  have  many  out  to  meet- 
ing to-night,"  the  minister  was  saying. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  sighed.  Faint  as  the  sound  was, 
he  heard  it. 

''  You  must  be  tired  after  all  that  gardening, 
dear,"  he  protested.  *'  Why  not  go  back  and  stop 
by  the  fire?  " 

''  No — oh,  no!  I'm  not  a  bit  tired.  I  was  only 
wondering ' ' 

''  Ah,  I  had  forgotten.  Out  with  it,  little 
woman!  " 

She  hesitated,  and  he  felt  her  fingers  tighten 
upon  his  arm. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  dreadfully  wicked  to  even  think 
of  such  a  thing ;  but — do  you — really  like — prayer- 
meeting?  " 

*'  Do  I — really  like  prayer-meeting f  Isn't  that 
— er — rather  what  one  might  call  a  leading  ques- 
tion to  put  to  your  pastor?  " 

"  Yes;  it  is,"  she  acknowledged,  with  what  she 
felt  to  be  almost  brazen  calm.  "  But  you  said 
you'd  tell  me." 

*'  H'm,"  mused  the  minister,  smiling  to  himself 
under  cover  of  the  darkness ; ''  why,  so  I  did.  And 
the  question  is,  do  I  like " 

''  Yes;  do  you?  " 


A  SPOT  WHERE  SPIRITS  BLEND  "    35 


i  I 


1  ought  to,  Heaven  knows!  If  I  don't,  isn't 
it  my  own  fanlt?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  still  calm  and  bold  beyond  Her 
wont.  ' '  No, ' '  she  repeated,  still  more  firmly ;  "  it 
is  not  your  fault.    Now  I " 

She  paused,  as  if  to  choose  her  dreadful  words 
with  scrupulous  care. 

^ '  I  —  dislike  and  —  dread  —  prayer  -  meeting. 
There!    I've  said  it!  " 

''  My  dear! "  cried  the  minister,  honestly 
aghast.    ^'  You  don't  really  mean " 

' '  Yes ;  I  do !  I've  been  thinking  for  a  long  time 
— ever  since  we  were  married.  I  didn't  mind  it  so 
much  before.  Do  forgive  me.  I  oughtn't  to  have 
said  it!  " 

The  minister  had  unconsciously  quickened  his 
long  stride  so  that  the  little  woman  at  his  side  was 
half  running  to  keep  up. 

' '  Please  forgive  me !  "  she  entreated  breath- 
lessly. 

"I'm  not  angry,"  he  assured  her.  "I'm  only 
surprised  and — er — ashamed.  But  what  shall  I 
do?  We've  got  to  have  a  prayer-meeting; 
and " 

He  cleared  his  throat  argumentatively. 

"  The  upper  room  in  Jerusalem,"  he  went  on, 
"  where  the  disciples  were  gathered,  with  one  ac- 
cord, in  one  place,  furnishes  the  example,  my  dear. 
The  church  is  bound  to  follow  it.  Don't  you  see, 
Miss  Philura,  it  would  never  do  to  give  it  up  I  " 


36  THE  HEART  OF  PHH^URA 

* '  They  wanted  something, ' '  murmured  the  lady 
he  persisted  in  miscalling.  ' '  They  wanted  some- 
thing real — perhaps  they  didn't  know  exactly 
what  it  was;  but  they  wanted  it.  Besides  they 
were  afraid." 

''  Of  the  hostile  Jews;  yes,"  he  approved, ''  and 
they  received  their  reward  in  the  shape  of  cloven 
flames  of  fire,  the  gift  of  tongues,  and  all  the  rest. 
It  was  a  magnificent  demonstration  and — ah — ex- 
ample." 

''  But  we  don't  get  anything,"  persisted  the 
gentle,  carping  voice  at  his  elbow.  '■ '  Elder  Trim- 
mer and  Deacon  Buckthorn  and  Sister  Sal- 
ter  " 

''  Be  careful,  my  dear,"  warned  the  minister. 
"  Somebody  might  be  coming  behind  us." 

' '  They  tell  God  things  when  they  pray,  as  if  he 
never  even  heard  of  Innisfield,"  she  pursued  sotto 
voce;  ''  and  when  Mrs.  Buckthorn  prays  for  the 
pastor,  I " 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Pettibone,"  interrupted  a 
majestically  nasal  voice  out  of  the  darkness,  and 
a  large  figure  loomed  up  in  the  immediate  fore- 
ground. "  I  was  just  comin'  out  of  my  house,  and 
I  thought  to  myself :  seems  to  me  I  hear  Philuf a 
Rice's  voice.  How  are  you  this  evening,  Phi- 
lura?  " 

Thus  invoked,  the  minister's  wife,  all  pink  and 
trembling,  confessed  to  a  degree  of  health  as  if  it 
were  a  crime. 


*'  A  SPOT  WHERE  SPIRITS  BLEND  "    37 

*'  I  really  can't  bring  myself  yet  to  call  you 
Missis  Pettibone,  when  I  recall  the  many,  many 
years  you  sat  under  my  instruction  in  the  Sabbath 
school  as  Philura  Rice.  I  little  thought  in  those 
days  that  I  was  a  chosen  vessel  for  sowing  the  good 
seed  in  our  pastor's  second  wife.  No,  indeed,  how 
little  do  we  realize  our  responsibilities.  The  first 
Mrs.  Pettibone  was  living  at  that  time,  I  recall; 
quite  a  different  type  of  woman  from  yourself, 
Philura.  Mary  Pettibone  was  too  good  for  this 
wicked  world,  as  I've  often  and  often  remarked  to 
Mr.  Buckthorn." 

The  lady  heaved  a  windy  sigh,  as  she  slowly 
descended  the  steps  leading  to  the  basement  room 
where  the  prayer-meetings  were  held.  There  was 
a  subtle  air  of  reproof  in  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  man- 
ner, as  she  shook  the  clinging  snow  from  her  gar- 
ments in  the  dimly-lighted  vestibule. 

**  Yes-s-s,  my  dear  Philura,"  she  went  on  sibi- 
lantly,  with  a  final  comprehensive  clash  of  her 
jetted  cape,  "  more  than  once  of  late  I  have 
wr-wrestled  before  the  Throne  of  Grace  in  your 
behalf.  It  has  been  borne  in  on  me  that  you 
stand  in  special  need  at  this  time." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  was  a  tall,  stout  person,  of  a 
cast  of  features  the  minister's  wife  had  more  than 
once  compared  with  the  dreadfully  fascinating 
portrait  of  the  Pharaoh  of  the  Oppression  as 
depicted  in  the  back  of  her  teacher's  Bible. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn's  resemblance  to  the  mummy 


38  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

of  Eameses  II.  was  more  strongly  marked  than 
common  as  she  turned  to  the  pastor,  who  was  in 
the  act  of  depositing  his  umbrella  in  a  remote 
corner.  Grown  sadly  wise  during  a  long  pastorate 
he  had  observed  that  parishioners,  even  of  the 
most  sanctified  type,  sometimes  appropriate  the 
ministerial  umbrella. 

"  I  learned  to-day,  Mr.  Pettibone,  that  you  have 
not  yet  called  upon  an  influential  family  which  has 
recently  moved  into  the  old  Eggleston  place.  I 
was  sorry  to  hear  it.'' 

''  Ahl  "  said  Mr.  Pettibone  urbanely.  "  But  I 
was  not  aware " 

*'  If  you  had  asked  me/'  anticipated  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn, *'  I  could  have  told  you  the  very  day  they 
came  to  town." 

Her  large  wagging  forefinger  pointed,  as  it 
were,  the  moral. 

' '  Two  weeks  ago  yesterday — in  all  that  rain ! — 
You  niay  recall  the  storm  we  had,  Philura? — the 
expressman  called  at  our  house  for  a  package.  I 
make  it  a  rule  to  send  our  outworn  winter  gar- 
ments to  the  Salvation  Army  at  this  time  of  the 
year.  And,  as  I  was  saying,  John  Snider  had  six 
trunks  on  the  wagon.  I  counted  them  myself.  Six 
trunks  marked  C.  But  Snider  insists  the  name  is 
Hill.  I  do  hope  and  trust  ^^ou'll  not  delay  to  visit 
them,  Mr.  Pettibone.    If  the  Methodists " 

But  the  minister,  turning  a  troubled,  though 
benevolent   smile,  upon  the  Avife   of  his   senior 


''  A  SPOT  WHERE  SPIRITS  BLEND  "   39 

deacon,  was  holding  wide  the  door  for  the  two 
ladies  to  precede  him. 

"  All  in  good  time,  my  dear  Mrs.  Buck- 
horn,"  he  said.  "  And  thank  you  for  letting  me 
know." 

His  quick  eye  took  in  at  a  glance  the  sparse 
sprinkling  of  men  and  women  on  the  wooden 
benches.  He  knew  them  well;  the  ''  Faithful 
Few,"  he  was  accustomed  to  apostrophise  them 
in  his  opening  prayer,  making  mention  also  of  the 
familiar  jDromise  relating  to  the  gathering  of  the 
two  or  three  and  the  mystic,  unseen  presence  in 
their  midst. 

The  cracked  bell  overhead  ceased  its  complain- 
ing; the  minister  mechanically  reached  for  his 
hymn-book.  Electa  Pratt  was  already  in  her 
place  before  the  wheezy  little  cabinet  organ. 

"  Let  us  sing  hymn  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight,  omitting,  if  you  please,  the  second  stanza," 
he  heard  himself  saying,  in  his  usual  forensic 
voice. 

Then  like  one  in  a  dream,  wherein  many  braided 
streams  of  thought  mingle  confusedly,  he  listened 
to  the  weak  discordant  singing,  with  his  wife's 
thin,  clear  soprano  striving  through  it. 

''  From  every  stormy  wind  that  blows, 
From  every  swelling  tide  of  woes. 
There  is  a  calm,  a  sure  retreat; 
'Tis  found  beneath  the  mercy  seat!  " 


40  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUKA 

A  sudden  gust  of  sleet  pattered  against  the  tall 
uncurtained  windows;  one  of  tlie  malodorous 
gas-jets  flared  up  in  a  stealthy  draft.  Deacon 
Scrimger  rose  stiffly  and  tiptoed  across  the  room 
to  turn  it  down. 

''  There  is  a  spot  where  spirits  blend 
Where  friend  holds  fellowship  with  friend. ' ' 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  was  singing  loudly,  nasally,  her 
pious  glance  upturned  to  the  dingy  ceiling.  Mr. 
Pettibone  sighed,  his  troubled  eyes  resting  for  an 
instant  on  the  small,  meek  figure  of  his  wife. 
Her  face  under  the  unfashionable  hat-brim  looked 
unnaturally  pale  and  delicate  in  the  flickering  yel- 
low light.  Eesolutely  he  took  up  his  Bible  and 
turned  to  the  passage  he  had  selected  and  marked 
an  hour  ago  in  his  study.  That  was  before  he 
knew  Philura  "  disliked  and  dreaded  "  prayer- 
meeting.  Then,  with  entire  unexpectedness,  a 
sick  distaste  for  the  ugly,  ill-lighted  room,  for  the 
stout  complacent  matron  in  the  front  row  of  seats, 
for  the  hawk-nosed  old  man,  with  his  shifty  eyes, 
sitting  behind  her,  for  Electa  Pratt,  and  the  bat- 
tered instrument  at  which  she  presided,  surged  up 
within  him.  He  read  the  familiar  words  coldly, 
stiffly,  aware  of  his  wife's  timidly  repentant  gaze 
upon  his  face,  and  more  remotely  of  Electa  Pratt 
in  the  act  of  absorbing  a  cough-drop,  while  she 
stealthily  turned  the  pages  of  the  hymnal,  in 


"  A  SPOT  WHEEE  SPIRITS  BLEND  "    41 

search  of  a  tune  devoid  of  supernumerary  flats 
and  sharps. 

At  his  pastor's  formal  request,  Elder  Trimmer, 
arose  to  lead  in  prayer.  Mr.  Trimmer  was  the 
enterprising  proprietor  of  Innisfield's  largest 
store:  The  Trimmer  Dry  Goods  Emporium,  to 
make  use  of  its  owner's  chosen  designation.  In 
just  what  manner  Mr.  Trimmer  had  been  led  to 
entertain  the  belief  that  the  continued  prosperity 
of  the  Emporium  as  well  as  the  length  of  his  days 
depended  in  some  unexplained  manner  upon  the 
regularity  of  his  attendance  at  the  stated  meetings 
of  the  church,  his  pastor  only  vaguely  understood. 
But  this  appeared  to  be  the  case.  Mr.  Trimmer 
was  setting  forth  the  matter  circumstantially  and 
at  great  length,  in  phraseology  borrowed  indis- 
criminately from  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  the 
Psalms  and  the  Pauline  Epistles.  He  spoke  of  his 
miraculous  "  conversion  from  the  way  of  sin- 
ners," of  his  "  blessed  experiences  since  he  first 
met  the  Lord,"  of  his  "  godly  sorrow  over  lost 
souls;"  passing  on  after  a  brief  but  pointed  allu- 
sion to  the  heathen  in  foreign  lands  to  the  condi- 
tion of  the  Presbyterian  church  in  Innisfield. 
This  particular  outpost  of  Zion,  Mr.  Trimmer 
confidentially  informed  Deity,  was  in  a  most 
lamentable  condition.  The  Saints  (presumably 
excepting  the  proprietor  of  the  Emporium)  were 
languishing;  the  walls  were  broken  down,  and 
there  appeared  (^vith  one  notable  exception)  to  be 


42  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

no  one  who  felt  a  flaming  zeal  in  the  subject  of 
their  upbuilding.  Meanwhile  the  wicked  flour- 
ished like  a  green  bay-tree,  and  the  Devil  went 
about  like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking  whom  he  might 
devour,  with  no  one  to  let  or  hinder.  In  view  of 
this  untoward  condition  of  affairs,  Mr.  Trimmer, 
in  a  loud  and  truculent  voice,  demanded  that'  the 
pastor  of  the  church  might  be  "  visited  from  on 
high;"  that  his  lips  might  be  "  touched  with  a 
live  coal  from  off  the  altar, ' '  and  that  he  might  be 
more  faithful  in  the  performance  of  his  duty. 
Then  evidently  fearing  misapprehension,  either  on 
the  part  of  the  Most  High  or  Mr.  Pettibone,  the 
fervid  petitioner  kindly  enumerated  these  duties, 
as  he  (Mr.  Trimmer)  saw  them. 

It  was  a  masterly  effort,  even  for  Elder  Trim- 
mer. Mrs.  Buckthorn  heaved  a  pious  sigh,  as  she 
murmured  in  the  ear  of  the  pastor's  wife,  ''  My! 
what  a  beautiful  prayer ! ' ' 

Mr.  Pettibone,  pilloried  in  the  leader's  seat, 
nervously  fingered  his  hymn-book,  while  Electa 
Pratt  suggested  a  number  in  her  loud,  buzzing 
whisper. 

"  Bles-st  be-e  the  tie-i  that  bi-in's. 
Our  hear-rts  in  Chri-istian  love!  " 

bleated  the  discordant  chorus.  But  the  voice  of  all 
others  he  listened  for  and  loved  no  longer  pierced 
the  weak  clamour  with  its  pure,  sweet  note. 


*'  A  SPOT  WHERE  SPIEITS  BLEND  "   43 

They  were  walking  soberly  homeward  in  the 
quiet  starlight,  which  April-wise  had  followed 
rain  and  snow  and  sleet,  like  the  sound  of  the  still 
small  voice. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  almost  roughly,  *'  that  I 
had  learned  the  art  of  brick-lajdng,  or  house- 
building, or — anything  useful  and — honest.  I 
fear  I'm  a  complete  failure  as  a  minister  of 
Christ's  gospel.  That  prayer-meeting,  now;  it 
was  no  worse  than  common,  I  suppose.  But  I — 
somehow  I  never  thought  it  could  be  anything 
else." 

"  It  is  all  my  fault,"  she  murmured,  contritely. 
*'  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  as  I  did." 

**  What  you  said  was  entirely  just,"  he  told  her 
firmly.  '^  But  The  Presence  in  the  midst — how 
could  it  remain  there  a  single  instant  to-night?  " 

"  Oh!  "  she  breathed,  with  the  impetuous  little 
gesture  he  knew  so  well.  "  It  is  everywhere!  It 
is  the  All-Encircling  Good.  We  couldn't  escape  it 
even  if  we  tried !  " 

''  So  we  declare  in  our  creeds,"  he  sighed; 
"  but  I  am  so  utterly  unimaginative — so  dull,  I 
fear  I  forget  sometimes." 

"  Everything  we  need — yes,  or  want  is  in  the 
Encircling  Good,"  she  went  on  dreamily.  "  You 
were  there,  and  I  didn't  even  know  it.  It  was 
only  when  I  asked — and  believed — that  you  came. ' ' 


44  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Silas  Pettibone  did  not  attempt  a  reply;  instead 
he  absent-mindedly  patted  the  hand  that  rested 
on  the  sleeve  of  his  shabby  greatcoat.  At  the 
moment  he  was  very  far  from  understanding  his 
wife's  changing  mood, 

*'  We  must  make  a  round  of  visits  to-morrow, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  after  a  lengthening  pause. 
"  If  a  family  has  moved  into  the  old  Eggleston 
place,  somebody  must  show  themselves  friendly, 
and  that  much  we  can  do." 

''  There  is  a  young  woman  there,"  his  wife  in- 
formed him  unexpectedly. 

'  ^  Ah  ?    When  did  you ' ' 

''  I  met  her  walking  in  the  grove  back  of  the 
house  the  other  day.  I  was  looking  for  arbutus. 
She  had  been  crying,  I  think.  At  least  her 
eyes " 

''  H'm!  "  mused  the  minister. 

*'  She  was  a  tall,  handsome  girl ;  and  she  seemed 
angry  because  I — at  least  I  thought  it  was  because 
I  met  her  all  of  a  sudden,  when  she  supposed  her- 
self to  be  quite  alone.  Of  course  I  apologise'd  and 
told  her  I  thought  the  house  was  unoccupied.  It 
has  been  for  so  long,  you  know." 

'^  And  you  made  some  inquiries,  my  dear? 
I  hope  you  let  her  know  who  you  were.  It  might 
serve  to  introduce  us." 

*'  I'm  afraid  I  forgot  about  being  the  minister's 
wife;  I'm  not  very  used  to  it  yet.  I  tried  to  com- 
fort her.    But  she  wouldn't  listen.    She  said  she 


"  A  SPOT  WHERE  SPIRITS  BLEND  "    45 

hated  the  place. — And  it  is  lonesome  up  there,  you 
know.  Then  I  asked  her  if  she  wouldn't  tell  me 
her  name,  and  she  said  it  was  Sylvia — Sylvia 
Cruden,  and  she  was  married.  But  I'm  sure  she 
looked  more  like  a  child  in  her  teens. ' ' 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CLOSED   DOOR 

The  old  Eggleston  place,  as  it  had  been  called 
through  three  generations  of  that  name,  lay  well 
back  from  the  town  in  a  lap  of  the  hills,  command- 
ing a  view  of  the  village  embowered  in  trees  and 
of  the  more  distant  river  glassing  the  sky  in  long, 
lazy  reaches  between  its  low  green  banks.  Miss 
Minerva  Eggleston,  the  only  surviving  daughter 
of  the  Squire,  had  lived  in  the  old  house  for 
more  years  than  any  one  of  her  neighbours  cared 
to  count,  cultivating  its  impoverished  acres,  with 
the  aid  of  a  superannuated  farm-hand,  who  had 
worked  on  the  place  since  his  early  youth.  Some 
thirty  years  previous  there  had  been  a  persistent 
rumour  to  the  etfect  that  Nathan  Shedd  was 
madly  in  love  with  his  employer's  daughter,  and 
that  Miss  Minerva,  a  handsome,  robust  girl,  with 
two  years  of  boarding-school  to  her  credit,  had 
very  properly  flouted  him,  but  with  unmerited 
scorn  and  contumely. 

Yet  the  years  avenged  Nathan.  Miss  Minerva, 
despite  her  accomplishments  and  the  undeniable 
comeliness  of  her  face,  remained  unwed.  One  by 
one  her  kith  and  kin  died  and  were  buried  under 
the  pointing  shadow  of  the  tall  Eggleston  monu- 

46 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR  47 

ment ;  till  at  the  last  Miss  Minerva  found  Herself 
on  the  downhill  road  from  her  forty-ninth  birth- 
day and  only  the  quasi-possessor  of  the  big  shabby 
house,  in  the  midst  of  its  heavily  mortgaged  acres. 
This  much  is  sober  history. 

What  follows  might  well  be  the  highly  em- 
bellished tale  of  a  coterie  of  country  gossips;  but 
it  is  said  that  on  the  morning  after  the  old  Squire 's 
funeral  Nathan  Shedd  walked  into  the  kitchen, 
where  Miss  Minerva  Eggleston  was  washing  up 
the  dishes,  slow  tears  dropping  down  her  faded 
cheeks.  Not,  it  may  be  supposed,  out  of  grief  for 
the  old  Squire,  who  had  died  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses more  than  a  year  before  of  a  stroke  of 
paralysis;  but  because  she  thus  tardily  realized 
herself  alone  and  lonely  on  a  long  and  dismal  road 
of  life. 

There  were  only  those  two  in  the  big  farm 
kitchen,  and  neither  of  them  ever  spoke  of  what 
happened.  So  it  must  have  been  the  chickadee 
who  told.  She  was  perched  on  the  lilac  bush  just 
outside  the  window,  her  wise  brown  head  cocked 
to  one  side,  her  bright  eyes  fixed  on  the  pair  inside 
the  kitchen. 

Nathan  Shedd  stood  staring  at  Miss  Minerva 
without  saying  a  word,  while  she  polished  and  pol- 
ished the  old  knives  and  forks.  After  a  while  he 
cleared  his  throat. 

"  I've  been  thinkin',''  he  said,  "  I've  been 
thinkin'  things  over,  since  yeste'day." 


48  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

' '  Have  yon,  Nate  1  ' '  said  Miss  Minerva,  wiping 
lier  tears  on  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

Nathan's  voice  sounded  curiously  hard  to  Miss 
Minerva,  and  she  looked  at  him  beseechingly  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  wet,  reddened  eyes.  He  was 
•dressed  (she  noticed)  in  a  new  suit  of  blue  serge, 
she'd  never  laid  eyes  on  before,  and  his  shirt  and 
his  collar  and  his  necktie  were  all  new.  He  was 
shaved,  too,  although  it  was  only  the  middle  of  the 
week.  But  that  she  laid  to  the  funeral  being  the 
day  before. 

'*  I've  been  thinkin',"  he  said,  still  in  that  slow, 
hard  voice,  *'  about  you,  Minerva." 

''  Well?  "  she  murmured,  dull  and  heavy  with 
crying. 

"  You  ain't  so  rich  as  you  was  once,  Minerva," 
he  went  on,  numbering  the  counts  of  his  indict- 
ment on  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand.  ''  An'  you 
ain't  so  young  as  you  was — by  thirty  years,  say." 

''I'm  forty-nine,"  she  told  him,  defiantly. 

*'  You  ain't  so  han'some  as  you  ust  t'  be,  not  by 
a  long  chalk,"  he  persisted,  like  a  boy  who  has 
learned  his  piece  and  is  bound  to  speak  it. 

Two  big  tears  dropped  into  the  dishpan.  No 
woman  likes  to  hear  the  sort  of  thing  he  was  say- 
ing in  that  hard  voice  of  his. 

''  Your  folks  are  all  dead,"  he  reminded  her, 
with  unnecessary  cruelty.  ''  An'  I'm  goin'  West. 
I  thought  mebbe  I'd  better  tell  you." 

At  that  she  burst  right  out  crying,  and  turned  to 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR  49 

run  out  of  the  room.  But  somehow,  being  all  blind 
with  tears,  she  ran  into  Nathan's  arms  which 
were  outspread  to  catch  her. 

They  were  married  the  next  week.  Then  it 
came  out  that  Nathan  Shedd  had  been  steadily 
growing  richer,  all  the  while  Miss  Minerva,  by 
slow  and  painful  degrees,  was  slipping  into  pov- 
erty. During  the  thirty-odd  years  he  had  worked 
on  the  old  Eggleston  place  (enduring  as  best  he 
might  the  scorn  in  Miss  Minerva's  eyes)  he  had 
thriftily  saved  many  dollars,  investing  them  all 
in  Western  farm  lands. 

The  Rev.  Silas  Pettibone  and  hi^  wife,  jogging 
along  the  country  road  behind  the  minister's  old 
sorrel  horse,  were  talking  over  this  sober  romance. 

"  I  always  felt  so  sorry  for  Miss  Minerva  be- 
cause Nathan  insisted  on  going  West,"  said  the 
minister's  wife,  sentimentally,  as  they  turned  in 
at  the  big  ivy-covered  gate-posts.  ^'  She  must 
have  loved  this  old  place." 

^'  I  think  Nathan  did  exactly  right,"  differed 
the  minister,  with  some  positiveness.  "Don't 
you  see,  my  dear,  if  they  had  remained  here  Miss 
Minerva's  pride  would  always  have  stood  between 
them  like  a  barrier.  She  would  have  been  secretly 
ashamed  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  to  think  that, 
after  all,  she  had  married  the  old  Squire's  hired 
man. 

*'  Out  in  Oregon  she  is  merely  the  wife  of  that 
prosperous  land-owner,  Nathan  Shedd.    Nobody 


50  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

knows  or  cares  that  she  was  once  the  handsomest 
girl  in  Innisfield,  and  the  daughter  of  a  rich  man. 
No,  my  dear,  it  is  sometimes  best  to  wash  the 
slate  clean  and  begin  the  problem  all  over  again." 

He  helped  his  wife  from  the  old-fashioned 
buggy  with  a  careful  hand,  having  an  eye  to  the 
muddy  wheel  and  the  shining  folds  of  her  best 
gown. 

''  How  nice  you  look.  Miss  Philura,"  he  said, 
gently, ' '  that — er — black  and  purple  stuff  is  quit© 
becoming,  after  all." 

The  little  lady  blushed  and  smiled. 

**  I  haven't  worn  it  often,"  she  said,  shaking 
out  the  heavy  brocade.  *'  It  is  almost  too  rich 
and  handsome  for  church  socials,  and  we  have  so 
few  weddings  in  the  parish." 

*'  Let  me  see,  wasn't  that  almost  a  wedding 
gown?  "  he  inquired,  with  gentle  jocularity. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  turned  her  head  and  was 
looking  at  the  big  house,  half  hid  in  overgrown 
shrubbery. 

''  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  ''  I  thought  for  a 
moment  I  saw  a  face  at  the  window  looking  at  us. 
But  it  disappeared  directly." 

The  minister  was  brushing  a  few  hairs,  strayed 
from  the  old  sorrel's  back,  off  his  second-best 
preaching-coat. 

'*  Well,  my  dear,  that  wouldn't  be  so  very  sur- 
prising, would  it?  I  don't  suppose  many  people 
have  called  on  the  family  as  yet." 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR  51 

He  walked  deliberately,  yet  with  a  certain 
kindly  authority,  toward  the  front  door,  with- 
drawn under  its  deep  pillared  portico  with  an  air 
of  dignified  reserve. 

*'  It  doesn't  look  as  if  anybody  lived  here,"  said 
his  wife,  glancing  about  half  timidly. 

''  I  have  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  testimony  to  the 
contrary — to  say  nothing  of  your  own,  my  dear, ' ' 
quoth  the  minister,  cheerfully. 

He  had  already  pulled  the  rusted  bell-handle, 
and  now  stood,  a  tentative  smile  on  his  lips,  con- 
fidently awaiting  the  opening  of  the  tall,  heavily 
pannelled  door.  There  were  narrow  ^vindows  of 
leaded  glass  on  either  side,  and  Mrs.  Pettibone's 
bright  eyes  dwelt  meditatively  on  the  grey  cob- 
webs, swinging  like  tattered  curtains  in  the  April 
air.  High  up  in  the  tops  of  the  dense  evergreens 
a  lonely  little  wind  was  sighing,  and  from  a  long 
way  oif  the  cawing  of  a  flight  of  crows  against  the 
clouded  blue  of  the, sky  came  faintly  to  the  ear. 

The  smile  slowly  faded  from  the  minister's  face. 
He  appeared  to  be  listening  with  bent  head  to  the 
intermittent  dropping  of  water  from  a  broken 
leader-pipe  into  the  depths  of  a  subterranean  cis- 
tern. 

''  Perhaps,"  ventured  Mrs.  Pettibone,  under 
her  breath, ''  the  door-bell " 

She  stopped  short,  her  face  assuming  the  dis- 
creetly cheerful  look  of  one  about  to  greet  a 
stranger. 


52  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

"  Did  you  hear "  she  whispered,  after  a 

lengthening  panse. 

''  A  step  I  "  he  finished.  ^'  I  fancied  I  heard  a 
board  creak  inside.    But " 

He  applied  his  knuckles  smartly  to  the  door. 

''  If  there  is  anyone  at  home,  I  imagine  they 
will  hear  that,"  he  observed. 

But  the  door  remained  fast.  The  sound  from 
within,  whatever  its  nature,  was  not  repeated.  A 
dark  cloud  passed  overhead. 

*'  Well,"  said  the  minister,  doubtfully,  "  I  am 
afraid  we  are  wasting  valuable  time." 

*'  And  it  looks  like  a  shower,"  murmured  his 
companion.  ''  I  really  wish  I'd  worn  my  ala- 
paca." 

But  Mr.  Pettibone  was  not  attending.  He 
stepped  off  the  portico  with  an  air  of  fresh  re- 
solve. 

' '  You  might  wait  here,  my  dear, ' '  he  suggested ; 
'*  I'll  go  'round  the  house.  I  remember  in  Miss 
Minerva's  day  we  always  used  the  side  entrance." 

Left  to  herself,  Mrs.  Pettibone  perched  her 
small  person  gingerly  on  the  edge  of  a  wooden 
bench,  built  into  the  side  of  the  porch  in  more 
hospitable  days.  The  wind  in  the  tree-tops  had 
by  now  deepened  into  a  soft,  all-pervasive  roar. 
Mrs.  Pettibone  smoothed  down  the  folds  of  her 
gown,  gathered  providently  from  a  too  intimate 
contact  mth  the  brick  floor.  There  were  piles  of 
damp  leaves  under  the  opposite  bench,  she  ob- 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR  53 

served,  and  decided  that,  for  once,  the  omniscient 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  had  been  mistaken.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  had  certainly  met  a  girl  walking 
in  the  woods  behind  the  house,  only  the  week  be- 
fore. She  recalled  once  more  the  tall,  hurrying 
figure;  the  stormy  beauty  of  the  face  under  its 
wind-blown  tresses.  The  girl  was  bare-headed; 
Mrs.  Pettibone  had  noticed  j^articularly  the  heavy 
reddish  hair  hanging  in  a  long  untidy  braid.  For 
the  rest  the  stranger  had  appeared  like  a  school- 
girl in  her  blue  serge  frock,  with  its  sailor  blouse 
and  short  skirt.  She  had  been  crying, — with 
homesickness,  no  doubt.  Mrs.  Pettibone  recalled 
the  big  dark  eyes,  reddened  and  brimming  with 
arrested  tears. 

*'  Really,  I  don't  know  when  I've  ever  felt  so 
embarrassed,"  the  minister's  wife  told  herself,  as 
she  absent-mindedly  smoothed  and  patted  the 
large  black  leaves  sprawled  vaguely  upon  the  dim 
purple  background  of  the  brocade  across  her  knee. 

How  curiously  everything  linked  itself  to  some- 
thing else !  The  black  and  purple  brocade,  almost 
before  she  was  aware  of  the  transition,  had  car- 
ried her  thoughts  quite  away  from  the  vivid  pres- 
ence of  the  strange  girl  under  the  wind-blown 
trees  to  other  and  more  intimate  scenes  of  her 
own  past.  How  distinctly  she  remembered  the 
morning  when  the  expressman  left  the  flat  oblong 
package.  It  had  come  from  Boston — from 
Cousin  Caroline  Van  Duser,  as  she  guessed  at 


54  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

once.  She  had  written  to  Cousin  Caroline,  in- 
forming her  of  her  contemplated  marriage  to  Mr. 
Pettibone,  and  here  was  the  reply,  in  tangible 
form.  She  knew  of  course  that  it  was  something 
to  make  over. 

Mrs.  Van  Duser,  like  some  stately  galleon  sail- 
ing over  life's  stormy  sea,  trailed  behind  her  a 
frothing  wake  of  dresses,  cloaks,  and  bonnets,  all 
of  the  choicest  and  most  expensive  materials. 
Many  women  of  Mrs,  Van  Duser 's  acquaintance 
unblushingly  sold  their  cast-otf  finery,  haggling 
viciously  behind  the  closed  doors  of  their  boudoirs 
with  certain  shrill-voiced,  hook-nosed  women  from 
dubious  shops  in  East  Boston.  Others,  less  avari- 
cious or  more  indolent,  abandoned  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  a  fashionable  career  to  their  maids. 
But  not  so  Mrs.  Van  Duser.  This  estimable  lady, 
while  piously  recognising  the  decrees  of  a  Provi- 
dence which  saw  fit  to  array  her  own  ample  person 
with  a  magnificence  akin  to  that  of  Solomon  in 
all  his  glory,  was  disposed  to  regard  her  outworn 
clothing  in  the  light  of  a  sacred  obligation  to 
those  less  richly  provided  for.  No  one  could 
realise  more  deeply  than  Mrs.  Van  Duser  the  in- 
calculable detriment  wrought  by  unthinking  gifts 
of  finery  to  those  destined  by  the  same  discreet 
Providence  to  a  lowly  station  in  life.  Upon  Phi- 
lura  Rice  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  bestowing 
certain  substantial  garments,  mostly  of  woollen 
materials  and  sober,  inconspicuous  hues;  saved, 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR  55 

moreover,  from  a  too  recent  and  fashionable  ap- 
pearance by  a  ripening  sojourn  in  Mrs.  Van 
Duser's  attic.  Philura  Rice  was  a  distant — a  very 
distant — relative  of  Mrs.  Van  Duser;  and  an  en- 
tirely worthy  person  in  her  own  plane  of  exist- 
ence. A  plane,  be  it  understood,  far  removed 
from  the  orbit  in  w^hich  Mrs.  Van  Duser  revolved 
in  majestic  splendour. 

Mrs.  Van  Duser  had  not  approved  of  Philura 
Rice's  marriage  to  the  Rev.  Silas  Pettibone.  Phi- 
lura, she  felt,  had  been  guilty  of  climbing  up  some 
other  way— to  make  use  of  a  scriptural  phrase — 
somehow  outwitting  Providence,  which  had 
plainly  indicated  the  humbler  path  of  solitary 
spinsterhood.  Still,  since  Philura  appeared  bent 
upon  rushing  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  she 
would  look  over  the  contents  of  her  wardrobe  of 
the  year  before  last,  with  a  view  to  the  approach- 
ing event. 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  still  gently  and  absent-mindedly 
patting  the  skirt  of  her  gown  as  she  listened  to 
the  rising  wind  in  the  tree-tops,  recalled  once 
more  the  agitated  and  hopeful  beating  of  her  heart 
as  she  painstakingly  unknotted  the  stout  string 
which  tied  the  package  from  Boston.  She  was 
hoping,  foolishly,  almost  sinfully  (she  told  her- 
self), that  Cousin  Caroline  had  sent  her  a  white 
dress, — or  at  the  least  a  soft  grey,  of  the  sliimmer- 
ing  satin,  coloured  like  the  breast  of  a  dove,  which 
Mrs.  Van  Duser  had  elected  as  her  favorite  garb 


56  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

of  state.  The  garment  within,  as  she  had  already 
been  apprised  by  letter,  was,  in  Mrs.  Van  Duser's 
estimation,  a  most  suitable  dress  for  the  occasion 
of  the  marriage. 

When  at  last  the  cover  was  off,  and  the  string 
carefully  rolled  into  a  neat  ball,  Miss  Pliilura  had 
lifted  the  shrouding  folds  of  tissue  paper  to  find 
— this !  She  could  never  forget  the  shock  of  sur- 
prise and  disappointment  when  at  last  she  found 
courage  to  lift  the  stiff,  heavy  brocade  from  its 
wrappings.  Tears  there  had  been,  in  those  first 
moments;  then  determined  revolt. 

*'  I  will  not  be  married  in  a  black  and  purple 
dress!"  she  had  declared  to  the  surrounding 
silence,  which  later  had  revealed  itself  as  both  in- 
telligent and  beneficent,  though  at  the  moment  it 
was  voiceless  of  inspiration,  or  even  hope. 

The  sound  of  steps  and  the  creaking  of  the 
heavy  door  on  its  hinges  roused  Mrs.  Pettibone 
from  a  happy  vision  of  herself,  clad  all  in  bridal 
white,  soming  slowly  down  the  aisle  of  the 
crowded  church  on  the  arm  of  the  minister. 

Hurriedly  she  rose  to  her  feet,  the  thrill  of  that 
realised  dream  flooding  her  face  with  radiance. 
In  the  doorway  stood  the  tall,  stout  figure  of  a 
woman,  regarding  her  fixedly  out  of  dark,  dull 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    HILL    FAINIILY 

*'  You  are  Mrs.  Pettibone,"  the  woman  said 
quickly;  "  won't  you  come  in?  I  hope  you'll  par- 
don the  condition  of  our  door-bell.  It  was  broken 
when  we  arrived,  and  we  haven't  been  able,  so 
far,  to  find  anyone  to  fix  it." 

Eather  dazedly  the  minister's  wife  found  her- 
self being  piloted  into  the  tall,  dark  parlour  at 
the  left  of  the  hall.  The  woman's  voice — a  soft, 
monotonous  voice — ran  on: 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  been  waiting  rather 
longer  than  you  found  pleasant  on  our  inhospi- 
table doorstep.  But  you  see  we  weren't  looking 
for  visitors,  and  so " 

She  paused  as  she  indicated  a  chair. 

The  minister,  who  had  seated  himself  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hearth,  where  a  low  fire  was 
smouldering,  smiled  professionally.  It  was  a 
pleasant  smile,  expressive  of  genuine  kindness 
and  simplicity  of  heart,  upon  which  his  wide  pas- 
toral experience  had  superimposed  sad  knowledge 
of  a  sinful  and  dying  world  in  all  its  manifold 
needs  and  complexities. 

"  You  understand,  Mrs. — er — Hill,  that  we — 
Mrs.  Pettibone  and  myself — endeavour  to  see  all 

57 


58  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

the  new  comers  to  the  parish,"  he  began  rather 
stiflSy.  "  We — ah — hope  that  we  may  be  able  to 
be  of  service,  either  in  the  way  of  directing  those 
who  may  desire  a  church  home,  or " 

His  hostess  was  smiling,  too;  yet  the  minister 
felt  himself  vaguely  uncomfortable  under  the 
scrutiny  of  those  curiously  opaque  eyes  beneath 
their  drooping  lids. 

*'  You  are  very  kind,  I'm  sure,"  murmured  the 
woman. 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  quite  unnoticed  in  the  deep 
chair  to  which  she  had  been  consigned,  fell  to  ex- 
amining the  room  with  a  child's  eager  curiosity. 
It  was  furnished  much  as  it  had  been  in  Miss 
Minerva  Eggleston's  day.  Nathan  Shedd  had  not 
approved  his  wife's  desire  to  transport  her  an- 
cestral belongings  to  their  new  home. 

"  The's  no  use  o'  carting  all  that  old  stuff  out 
West,"  he  had  stated.  ''  We  c'n  buy  a  plenty 
more  where  we  are  going.  I  mean  to  have  every- 
thin '  new !  ' ' 

Mrs.  Pettibone  recognised  one  by  one  Miss 
Minerva 's  antique  chairs  and  sofas ;  but  they  had 
been  curiously  transformed  by  a  rich  Oriental 
covering  here,  and  a  pile  of  embroidered  cushions 
yonder.  There  was  a  gay  little  work  basket  on 
the  table  by  the  fire,  and  a  heap  of  books  and 
magazines  littered  the  top  of  the  big  square  piano, 
which  had  been  dragged  from  its  dark  corner  to 
a  position  near  the  pendant  lamp.    Then  her  eyes 


THE  HILL  FAMILY  59 

wandered  to  the  windows,  hung  with  fresh  muslin, 
and  the  pot  of  crocus,  gay  with  purple  and  yellow 
blooms,  which  brightened  the  high  mantel-shelf. 

"  You  have  one  or  more  children,  I  under- 
stand? "  Mr.  Pettibone  was  saying,  still  profes- 
sionally. ' '  I  believe  my  wife  met  your  daughter, 
quite — er — by  accident,  not  long  ago." 

Mrs.  Hill  darted  a  keen  glance  of  inquiry  at 
the  minister's  wife. 

''  My  son  and  his  mfe  are  with  me  for  the 
present,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  Possibly — you  saw 
Mrs.  Walter  Hill." 

"  Oh!  "  murmured  Mrs.  Pettibone  in  a  sur- 
prised voice. 

Her  blue  eyes  scanned  the  woman's  face  with 
undisguised  interest. 

"  You  are  thinking  perhaps  that  my  daughter- 
in-law  resembles  me,"  Mrs.  Hill  said,  drj4y.  '^  It 
is  easily  explained;  my  son  and  his  wife  are 
cousins." 

"  Oh!  "  commented  Mrs.  Pettibone  again;  this 
time  with  a  falling  inflection.  ' '  She  seemed  very 
— ^young,"  she  added,  hurriedly.  ''  At  least  I — 
have  that  impression." 

Mrs.  Hill's  curiously  disconcerting  gaze  was 
levelled  full  upon  her.  It  seemed  impossible  not 
to  go  on  talking — explaining. 

''  I  was  out  looking  for  arbutus,"  the  minister's 
little  wife  went  on,  stealing  a  look  at  her  husband, 
who  smiled  back  encouragement.    *'  The  arbutus 


60  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

is  always  earliest  and  pinkest  in  Miss  Minerva's 
woods,  you  know." 

"  Miss — Minerva?  " 

The  woman's  voice  expressed  a  polite,  yet  chill- 
ing curiosity. 

''  Perhaps  I  should  have  said  Miss  Eggleston, 
or — Mrs.  Shedd.  This  is  her  place,  of  course  you 
know, — or  was.    Perhaps  they  have  sold  it.    But 

I  hadn't  heard  that  you It  is  really  veri/ 

pleasant  here,  especially  in  warm  weather." 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  all  pink  and  agitated,  gazed 
beseechingly  at  her  hostess.  But  Mrs.  Hill  was 
apparently  blind  to  her  discomfort. 

*'  You  were  speaking  of  my  daughter-in-law," 
she  said,  getting  up  rather  quickly  for  so  large  a 
person.  ^ '  I  will  see  if  she  is  at  home.  You — met 
her,  you  say?  " 

''  In  the  woods — yes.  She  was  walking  there 
quite  alone,  and — I — I  couldn't  help  thinking  she 
might  be  feeling — a  little  homesick."  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone was  forced  to  tilt  her  chin  upward,  in  order 
to  meet  the  woman's  penetrating  gaze.  She  felt 
curiously  shamed  and  confused,  like  a  child  de- 
tected in  some  flagrant  bit  of  mischief.  Yet  she 
could  not  help  noticing  Mrs.  Hill's  dress,  which 
"was  of  rich  material,  but  stained  and  spotted 
down  the  front  breadth,  as  if  (Mrs.  Pettibone 
thought)  she  had  washed  dishes  in  it,  without  an 
apron. 

^'  We  keep  no  servant,"  Mrs.  Hill  informed  her 


THE  HILL  FAMH^Y  61 

abruptly.  *'  And  we  rent  the  place.  I  shall  not 
— buy  it,  for  the  present,  till  we  see  if  we  are  go- 
ing to  like  it. ' ' 

She  turned  and  walked  s"v\T.ftly  to  the  door,  her 
feet  making  no  sound  on  the  old  velvet  carpet  with 
its  large  dim  roses. 

*'  I  should  like  you  to  meet  my  son,"  she  added, 
pausing  with  her  hand  on  the  knob  to  look  steadily 
at  the  minister;  " — if  you  will  excuse  me  for  a 
moment,  while  I  call  him,  and  Mrs.  Walter  Hill, — 
I  believe  I  told  you  she  is  my  niece." 

The  minister  and  his  wife  sat  motionless  in 
their  places,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  woman's 
receding  footfalls,  as  she  ascended  the  uncarpeted 
stair.  The  roar  of  the  wind  in  the  evergreens 
penetrated  the  stillness  that  followed  like  a 
solemn  voice.  Mrs.  Pettibone  stole  a  timid  glance 
at  her  husband.  He  was  looking  fixedly  out  of  the 
window,  his  lips  firmly  compressed,  his  dark 
brows  drawn  over  thoughtful  eyes.  She  feared 
he  had  disapproved  her  unthinking  remarks  to 
their  prospective  parishioner. 

**  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken  of  her 
daughter-in-law  as  being  young  or — homesick," 
she  reflected.  ''  But  it  is  a  lonesome  sort  of  place 
for  a  young  girl,  even  if  she  is  married." 

She  wondered  vaguely  how  it  would  seem  to 
have  one's  aunt  for  a  mother-in-law,  and  for  no 
assignable  reason  decided  that  it  would  not  be  at 
all  nice. 


62  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Then  her  eyes  were  drawn  once  more  to  the  gay, 
beribboned  basket  on  the  table  almost  within 
reach  of  her  hand.  Someone  had  been  working 
there,  a  handsome  gold  thimble  had  rolled  to  the 
edge  of  the  table,  and  a  spool  of  fine  cotton  lay  on 
the  floor.  There  was  a  mass  of  filmy  white  stuff 
in  the  basket.  Mrs.  Pettibone  could  see  a  strip 
of  narrow  lace,  partly  sewed  to  the  frill  of  a  tiny 
sleeve.  She  leaned  forward  impulsively  in  her 
chair,  the  soft  colour  flooding  her  cheeks. 

"  Silas!  "  she  murmured. 

The  minister  turned  his  abstracted  gaze  upon 
her. 

''  Well,  my  dear?  "  he  replied,  in  the  voice  of 
one  whose  mind  is  filled  with  alien  thoughts. 

"  Oh,  I Do — do  you  think  it  is  going  to 

rain?  " 

''  Not  immediately,"  he  answered.  He  glanced 
frowningly  at  his  watch.  ''  We  shall  have  ample 
time  to  reach  home,  I  think,  if  we  are  not  detained 
too  long." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  both  of  them  before 
they  heard  the  sound  of  steps  in  the  passage. 

''  I  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  my  young  peo- 
ple," apologised  Mrs.  Hill.  She  was  breathing 
heavily  and  spots  of  purplish  colour  had  flamed 
up  under  her  dull  skin.  *'  My  son  is  so  fond  of 
outdoor  life,"  she  went  on,  her  quick,  determined 
eyes  darting  from  the  minister  to  his  wife,  then 
to  the  door  which  she  had  thrown  wide.    * '  And  as 


THE  HILL  FAMILY  63 

for  Sylvia Come  in,  my  dear;  never  mind 

your  ruffled  hair.  Mrs.  Pettibone,  let  me  present 
my  daughter,  Mrs.  Walter  Hill.  I  believe  you  and 
Sylvia  have  met  before — in  the  woods,  wasn't 
it?  But  you  haven't  been  fortunate  enough  to 
find  any  arbutus,  my  dear  Sylvia.  Mr.  Pettibone, 
my  son,  Walter — Hill." 

Thus  urged,  the  two  young  people  who  had 
slowly  followed  the  older  woman  into  the  room- 
quite  like  sulky  children,  Mrs.  Pettibone  was 
thinking — came  forward.  The  girl,  her  handsome 
mouth  set  in  rebellious  curves,  barely  touched 
with  limp  cold  fingers  the  friendly  hands  out- 
stretched to  greet  her.  But  the  boy — ^he  was 
barely  twenty,  Mr.  Pettibone  decided — smiled 
pleasantly,  almost  eagerly  as  he  shook  hands  man- 
fashion  with  the  minister. 

''  Yes,  I  hope  we're  going  to  like  it  here,"  he 
said,  in  response  to  Mr.  Pettibone 's  stereotyped 
inquiry.  ''It's  a  great  house;  isn't  it?  But — 
lonesome — eh?    I " 

He  stopped  short,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  his 
mother,  who  had  stepped  softly  to  his  side. 

'*  Mother,  here,  will  tell  you  how  we  were  al- 
ways teasing  to  live  in  the  country;  I'm  fond  of 
shooting,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing; 
and  Sylvia " 

'*  Such  children  as  they  both  are,"  smiled  Mrs. 
Hill,  laying  her  plump  white  hand  caressingly  on 
her  son's  shoulder.     ^'  We  are  both  hoping  the 


64  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

good  country  air  will  bring  dear  Sylvia  back  to 
bealth." 

Still  smiling,  she  lowered  her  smooth,  full  lids ; 
and  the  minister,  revolving  various  quasi-profes- 
sional inquiries  as  to  the  Hills'  former  home,  their 
recent  church  connection  and  the  hoped-for  op- 
portunity of  enrolling  the  young  people  in  his 
Christian  Endeavour  Society,  suddenly  bethought 
himself  of  the  fact  that  all  in  the  room  were 
standing  and  their  hostess  had  not  asked  them 
to  resume  their  chairs. 

It  was  the  friendly  custom  of  the  countryside 
to  pursue  one's  visitors  quite  to  the  verge  of  the 
outer  world,  the  tide  of  conversation  rising  to  its 
flood,  at  the  front  door.  Mr.  Pettibone  was  pa- 
tiently accustomed  to  parochial  confidences  re- 
served for  the  shadowy  regions  of  the  passage; 
and  persisted  in,  while  he  stood  hat  in  hand  and 
ankle-deep  in  unswept  snow  on  the  doorstep.  But 
on  the  present  occasion  he  found  himself  dis- 
missed at  the  parlour  door  by  the  older  Mrs.  Hill, 
with  a  practised  ease  and  aplomb  which  left  no 
opportunity  for  valedictory  remarks  on  the  part 
of  the  minister  or  his  agitated  little  wife. 

''  Really,  I  don't  know  when  I've  ever  felt  so — 
queer,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  confided  to  her  husband, 
when  the  clumsy  hoofs  of  the  sorrel  were  once 
more  spattering  the  mud  of  the  highway  over  the 
shabby  lap-robe  her  husband  had  carefully  tucked 
about  her. 


THE  HILL  FAMILY  65 

*'  H'm,"  commented  the  minister  non-commit- 
tally.  "I'm  not  sure  we  were  altogether  wel- 
come. ' ' 

"  That  young  Mrs.  Hill  is  really  handsome; 
don't  you  think  so?  "  persisted  his  wife.  ''  But, 
oh,  I'm  sure  she — ^isn't  happy.  Do  you  suppose 
that — that  woman  could  be  unkind  to  her  ?  I  don 't 
like  her  face." 

"  Unkind?  "  echoed  Mr.  Pettibone.  *'  I  suppose 
you  refer  to  the  older  Mrs.  Hill.  Why  should  she 
be  unkind?  But  personally  I  don't  believe  in  the 
marriage  of  near  relatives." 

He  shook  his  head,  as  he  slapped  the  reins 
provocatively  over  the  old  sorrel's  back.  Mrs. 
Pettibone  was  not  paying  her  usual  meek  atten- 
tion; she  leaned  suddenly  forward,  her  face 
lighted  with  a  smile ;  then  waved  her  small  gloved 
hand  vigorously. 

''It's  Milly,"  she  cried,  ''— Milly  Orne.  The 
child  is  working  among  her  flowers.  And,  oh, 
look,  Silas,  she  has  a  whole  row  of  daffodils  in 
blossom!  " 

The  minister's  abstracted  gaze  followed  his 
wife's  eager  gesture. 

' '  Ah,  yes, ' '  he  murmured.  * ' — Er — perhaps  we 
might  stop  for  just  a  moment,  and  inquire  for  the 
old  people.  Orne  was  pretty  well  crippled  with 
lumbago  the  last  time  I  called." 

The  girl  had  dropped  her  trowel  and  hurried 
forward,  as  the  reluctant  feet  of  the  sorrel  scuffled 


66  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

to  a  standstill.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  with  quanti- 
ties of  yellow-brown  hair  wound  closely  about  her 
small  head.  As  she  stood  beside  the  mud-bespat- 
tered vehicle,  her  face  upturned  to  its  occupants, 
Mrs.  Pettibone  observed  with  a  secret  pang  of  the 
envy  peculiar  to  middle  age  the  unblemished  pearl 
and  rose  of  her  softly  rounded  cheek  and  the  way 
the  glistening  hair  curled  about  the  delicate  ears. 
The  girl's  eyes  were  as  blue  as  corn-flowers,  and 
the  softly  parted  lips  revealed  the  edges  of  flaw- 
less teeth. 

'^  Isn't  she — beautiful?  "  breathed  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone, with  a  gentle  sigh  of  resignation,  as  the  in- 
dignant sorrel  resumed  his  interrupted  progress. 

The  minister  was  gazing  at  the  animal's  bobbing 
ears  with  knit  brows.  He  shook  his  head  with  a 
suggestion  of  sadness. 

"  The  child  is  quite  as  good  as  she  is  pretty,'* 
he  said,  slowly.    *'  But " 

He  was  silent  for  a  space,  while  Mrs.  Pettibone 
pensively  regarded  the  bunch  of  daffodils  Milly 
Orne  had  given  her  at  the  moment  of  parting. 

''  Ah,  well!  "  he  said  at  last;  "  the  best  any  of 
us  can  do  is  to  trust  the  hand  that  spares  the 
bruised  reed. — And — er — speaking  of  the  Hills, 
my  dear,  I  was  about  to  remark  that  in  my  opinion 
the  marriage  of  the  two  cousins  explains  the  whole 
matter:  the  aunt,  who  is  also  the  mother-in-law, 
probably  objected  to  the  marriage;  and  quite 
right,  too.    The  boy  is  too  young.    "Well ;  we  must 


THE  HILL  FAMILY  67 

see  what  we  can  do.  They'll  want  to  see  some 
company  of  their  o^vn  age.  You  can 't  safely  bot- 
tle up  young  life  in  a  lonesome  old  place  like  that. 
It's  bound  to  break  out  somewhere." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  looked  up  mstfully  into  the  min- 
ister's  strong,  kindly  face.  .  .  .  Sometimes  she 
almost  forgot  she  was  his  wife.  Mr.  Pettibone 's 
*'  Mary  "  had  been  dead  for  full  seven  years  and 
all  that  time  she  had  been  just  "  Miss  Philura," 
— a  shabby,  timid  little  spinster.  Twice  a  year,  in 
the  spring  and  fall,  her  pastor  had  called  upon 
her  in  the  course  of  his  regular  parochial  rounds, 
and  she  had  received  him  in  her  shabby,  lonely 
little  parlour  in  a  state  of  trepidation  bordering 
on  awe.  He  had  looked  so  grand,  so  wise,  she  had 
scarcely  dared  utter  her  carefully  worded  little 
commonplaces  about  the  weather,  the  choir,  or 
even  the  latest  social — at  which  she  had  passed 
cake,  in  one  of  Cousin  Caroline  Van  Duser's  made- 
over  dresses.  .    .    . 

But  now, — she  drew  a  long  breath  of  wonder,  as 
she  strove  for  the  hundredth  time  to  realize  how 
it  had  all  come  about.  It  had  begun  early  in  the 
spring  two  years  ago,  when  she  visited  Cousin 
Caroline,  stopping  a  whole  week  in  the  big,  gloomy 
Beacon  Street  mansion.  And  almost  the  last  day 
of  her  stay  Cousin  Caroline  had  taken  her  to  hear 
a  lecture  at  the  Ontological  Club.  Suppose  she 
had  never  heard  that  lecture?  "What  if  dear 
Cousin  Caroline  had  chosen  to  leave  her  at  home 


68  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

that  day,  or  consented  to  send  her,  under  convoy 
of  the  coachman,  to  visit  the  wax-works.  Mrs. 
Pettibone  remembered  distinctly  that  she  had 
wished  very  much  to  see  the  wax-works,  which 
Electa  Pratt  had  described  to  her  in  dreadful  de- 
tail. Of  course  she  would  have  declined  to  wit- 
ness an  actual  murder.  But  a  murder  in  wax, 
however  realistic,  was  something  different.  Any- 
one might  view  it  with  pleasure.  Electa  had  said 
it  made  icy-cold  shivers  run  up  and  down  her 
spine  like  anything. 

She  had  mentioned  the  wax-works  to  Cousin 
Caroline,  with  what  she  felt  to  be  almost  brazen 
temerity,  and  had  been  properly  punished  by  that 
lady's  cold  disapproving  stare  centred  upon  her 
small,  shrinking  person  through  the  large  lenses 
of  a  lorgnette. 

'^  Wax-works,"  stated  Mrs.  Van  Duser,  "  are 
vulgar,  immoral,  pernicious.  They  cater  to  an 
essentially  depraved  appetite,  totally  demoraliz- 
ing to  the  higher  faculties  of  the  soul.  I  am  sur- 
prised, Philura,  that  you  should  experience  any 
desire  to  so  stultify  yourself;  and  I  beg  that  you 
will,  instead,  accompany  me  to  a  lecture  on 
*  Thought  Forces  and  the  Infinite,'  which  will,  I 
trust,  lift  you  to  a  somewhat  higher  plane  of  real- 
isation than  you  at  present  appear  to  occupy." 

How  could  she  have  secretly  rebelled — almost 
to  the  point  of  disliking  dear  Cousin  Caroline? 
iWax-works,  indeed!    What  were  wax-works  and 


THE  HILL  FAMILY  69 

their  resultant  thrills,  however  pleasurable,  to  be- 
coming aware  of  one's  real  powers?  It  was  actu- 
ally right  to  want  things !  Nay,  desire  itself  was 
Infinite  Good  knocking  at  the  door  of  one's  con- 
sciousness— seeking,  almost  demanding,  entrance. 

She  had  gone  away  from  the  Ontological  Club 
singularly  uplifted,  tremulously  happy,  and  con- 
scious for  the  first  time  of  a  vast  unexplored 
ocean  of  good;  viewless,  but  no  less  real  and 
beneficent — surging,  as  it  were,  all  about  the  bar- 
ren shores  of  her  life. 

Out  of  it  had  come,  with  inconceivable  prompt- 
ness, a  hat  with  plumes,  two  becoming  gowns,  a 
silk  petticoat,  a  feather  boa,  and — her  husband! 
How  had  she  dared?  Was  it,  after  all,  merely 
chance?    Did  he  really  and  truly  love  her? 

She  stole  a  second  swift  glance  at  the  Rev.  Silas 
Pettibone.  How  beautiful  was  the  stern,  clear-cut 
outline  of  his  brow,  nose,  and  chin !  What  won- 
derful eyes  he  had;  deep  and  somber  yet  kind  as 
love  itself. 

Then,  without  at  all  meaning  to  do  so,  she  called 
back  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  words  of  the  night  before 
— and  more  reluctantly,  more  timidly  still,  the  first 
Mrs.  Pettibone 's  sweet,  wistful  face,  of  a  type 
totally  different  from  her  own. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MALVTNA  BENNETT,  DRESSiLA.KER 

The  dressmaking  establishment  of  Miss  Malvina 
Bennett  had  become  a  sort  of  clearing-house  for 
general  and  miscellaneous  information.  Seated 
in  Miss  Malvina 's  little  parlour,  in  close  juxtaposi- 
tion to  the  ornate  base-burner,  the  votaries  of 
fashion  (as  represented  by  a  pile  of  highly 
coloured  magazines)  might  learn  many  things 
concerning  the  world  at  large,  but  more  particu- 
larly of  Innisfield.  Miss  Malvina  herself  would 
have  repudiated  the  title  of  gossip  with  entirely 
just  indignation. 

*'  Ef  there's  one  thing  more'n  another  I  hate 
an'  despise,"  she  was  wont  to  declare,  with  deep 
feeling,  "  it's  tale-bearin'  an'  gossipin'.  I  min' 
my  business,  an'  I  expect  my  customers  to  min* 
theirs,  the  hull  endurin'  time.  Anybody  'at  sews 
has  got  to  watch  out  fer  their  tongues.  As  I  sez 
t'  Mother,  *  the's  somethin'  about  settin'  an' 
se\vin','  I  sez,  ' — more  especial  bastin' — that  doos 
somehow  tempt  a  body  t'  tittle-tattle.'  But  the' 
ain't  anybody  c'n  say  I  was  ever  known  t'  repeat 
what  comes  t'  my  years  in  the  shop.  An'  I  ain't 
sayin'  I  don't  know  'bout  's  well  as  most  folks 
what's  goin'  on  in  this  town." 

70 


MALVINA  BENNETT,  DRESSMAKER    71 

With  which  tacit  admission  Miss  Malvina  in- 
vited fresh  confidences  of  the  sort  one  makes  to  a 
discreet  person,  whose  mouth  is  filled  with  pins, 
while  with  a  pair  of  sharp  scissors  she  deftly  clips 
about  the  circle  of  one 's  neck  in  dangerous  near- 
ness to  the  jugular  vein,  or  with  the  same  shining 
implement  snips  suddenly  and  ^\ith  apparent 
recklessness  under  one's  arm-pit. 

Miss  Bennett  was  a  wiry  little  person  who  had 
never  looked  young,  even  in  the  days  when  she 
toddled  solemnly  about  her  grandmother's  kitchen 
in  sedate  and  unsuccessful  pursuit  of  an  elderly 
kitten.  By  the  time  she  was  eight  Malvina  could 
overcast  a  seam  ''  es  neat  es  a  pin;"  at  ten  she 
was  sewing  her  own  flannel  petticoats,  without 
manifesting  a  single  carnal  desire  to  run  out  of 
doors  and  frolic  with  other  children. 

*'  I  guess  the  Lord  created  me  'special  t'  be  a 
dressmaker,"  was  Miss  Malvina 's  pious  comment 
on  the  workings  of  a  Providence  which  appeared 
to  have  closed  every  other  avenue  of  usefulness 
save  the  one  the  little  seamstress  trod  so  cheer- 
fully. And  having  never  been  young — meaning 
that  Miss  Malvina  was  never  in  the  least  rosy, 
nor  pretty,  nor  idle,  nor  imprudent;  and  that  in 
consequence  of  all  these  negative  virtues  she  never 
had  a  beau — so,  likewise,  she  did  not  grow  old  the 
way  other  and  more  fortunate  people  did.  No  one 
remembered  just  when  Malvina  had  taken  to 
wearing  glasses,  because  the  large,  steel-bowed 


72  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

spectacles  (bequeathed  to  her  from  her  grand- 
mother) appeared  so  eminently  fitting  an  addition 
to  her  somewhat  nipped  and  wintry  little  nose. 
So  also  the  adoption  of  a  much  befrizzed  black 
hair  front — also  an  heirloom;  but  every  bit  as 
good  as  new — made  little  or  no  change  in  Miss 
Malvina's  everyday  aspect;  even  when  the  frizzed 
front  became,  in  certain  exigencies,  pushed  rak- 
ishly  to  one  side,  revealing  sparse  grey  hair 
combed  neatly  back  to  join  the  rigid  pepper-and- 
salt  knob  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

''  Here's  a  han'  glass.  Mis'  Puffer,"  exhorted 
Miss  Malvina,  pressing  upon  her  customer  a  small 
cracked  mirror.  "  I  want  you  should  look  at  your 
back.  There!  Ain't  that  a  neat  fit?  It  couldn't 
lay  no  smoother  ner  set  no  snugger,  I  don't  care 
who  done  it!  Land!  I  do  hope  an'  pray  you'll 
git  a  chance  t'  wear  this  dress  while  it's  stylish. 
Last  year,  I  remember,  no  sooner  did  I  git  that 
velveteen  skirt  fitted  down  to  you,  than  you  had 
t'  lay  it  aside,  and  now  I  s'pose  it's  too  narrer. 
You  seem  t'  be  some  stouter  since  the  last  baby 
was  born." 

''  I  think  I  hear  him  crying,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Puffer,  resignedly;  "  I  left  him  outside  in  his  go- 
cart  asleep." 

"  Don't  you  das  t'  stir,"  warned  the  dress- 
maker, with  a  threatening  gesture;  "  I  jest  got 
them  goods  pinned  onto  you  in  a  real  stylish 
draped  effect.    You  know;  like  the  one  you  was 


MALVINA  BENNETT,  DEESSMAKER     73 

admirin'  'n  the  Arts  an'  Modes.  I'll  take  a  peek 
at  tlie  baby.  Anyhow,  you  couldn't  move  if  you 
was  to  try." 

Mrs.  Puffer,  a  stout  matronly  person,  with  a 
perpetual  pucker  of  anxiety  between  her  mild 
blue  eyes,  relaxed  obediently  in  the  swaddling 
folds  of  her  inchoate  go^\Ti. 

"  As  long's  he  don't  get  under  the  strap  an' 
choke  himself  to  death,"  she  sent  after  Miss 
Malvina's  retreating  steps.  ''  Dr.  Holt  says  it 
don't  hurt  'em  any  to  cry. — An'  you  might  turn 
him  over,  and  give  him  his  }3acifier;  it's  round  his 
neck  on  a  pink  cord." 

Miss  Malvina  returned  presently,  her  face 
wreathed  in  smiles. 

*'  You  don't  need  t'  worry  a  mite  about  the 
baby,"  she  said.  "  Who  d'  you  s'pose  has  got 
him? — takin'  care  of  him  like  she  was  his  mother 
f'om  'way  back." 

Mrs.  Puffer  didn't  know,  she  w^as  sure;  and  be- 
came restive  once  more  under  Miss  Bennett's 
formative  hand. 

''Now  you  jest  stan'  still.  Mis'  Puffer,  or  I 
can't  do  nothin'.  These  'ere  pernickity  folds  is 
the  very  dickens,  ef  you  don't  get  'em  right,  first 
off'. — I  was  jest  a-goin'  t'  tell  you,  if  you'll  quit 
prancin',  Philura  Eice — I  mean  Mis'  Pettibone — • 
was  comin'  along,  an'  she  heard  him.  Sure 
'nough  he  was  down  in  under  the  strap,  his  face  's 
red  's  a  beet.    My!  you'd  ought  t'  'a'  seen  her. 


,74  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

*  Who's  baby  is  it?  '  she  sez  t'  me,  all  pink  an' 
excited.  '  I've  got  Mis'  Pnffer  all  pinned  up  in 
ten  yards  o'  dress-goods  inside,'  I  sez,  an'  begun 
t'  hunt  in  his  blankets  fer  his  pacifier.  But,  land, 
Philura  she  had  him  out  before  you  c'd  say  Jack 
Eobinson!  '  I'll  take  care  of  him,'  she  sez.  '  I'd 
love  to.'  " 

Mrs.  Puffer  sighed  a  transient  relief. 

''  Well,  now,  that's  real  kind  of  Miss  Philura," 
she  said,  twisting  her  head  to  gaze  at  the  reflection 
of  her  large  person  in  the  glass.  "  But  I  do  hope 
she  won't  drop  him." 

Miss  Bennett  cackled  appreciatively  as  she  took 
another  pin  from  between  her  closed  teeth. 

''  She  won't  drop  him,"  she  hazarded;  ''  but  it 
wouldn't  s 'prise  me  none  if  she  run  off  with  him 
fer  a  spell.  Philura  always  had  a  hankerin'  after 
babies." 

Outside  in  the  warm  April  sunshine  the  minis- 
ter's wife  was  talking  confidentially  to  the  new 
parishioner.  Upon  being  extricated  from  his 
perilous  position,  young  Master  Puffer  had  in- 
stantly ceased  his  half-strangled  cries  for  ma- 
ternal aid,  and  was  gazing  in  round-eyed  wonder- 
ment at  the  new  and  interesting  phenomenon  of 
a  hat  with,  nodding  plumes  and  a  pink  rose  in 
front.  The  face  under  the  hat  was  almost  as  pink 
as  the  rose,  and  two  blue  eyes  gazed  at  him  soul- 
fully.     The  unfamiliar  voice,  too,  had  a  pleas- 


MALVINA  BENNETT,  DRESSMAKER    75 

ing  cadence,  and  the  stranger's  embracing  arms 
held  his  small,  plump  person  as  he  liked  to  be 
held. 

After  a  period  of  reflection  the  baby  opened  his 
rosy  mouth  in  a  puckered  circle  and  a  sound  came 
out.  It  wasn't  just  what  he  meant  to  say;  but  it 
served  the  purpose. 

''You  darling!"  cried  the  minister's  little 
wife.    "  You  s-w-e-e-t,  pr-r-ecious  la-amb!  " 

Then  she  buried  her  hungry  little  mouth  in  his 
warm,  fat  neck. 

The  new  parishioner  betrayed  no  resentment. 
He  was,  in  fact,  used  to  such  demonstrations.  He 
continued  to  gaze  delightedly  at  the  pink  rose  and 
the  pink  cheeks  and  the  blue  shining  eyes  of  his 
captor,  waving  his  small,  dimpled  hands  uncer- 
tainly toward  the  objects  of  his  desire. 

''I'd  like  to  carry  you  off,"  were  the  traitorous 
words  the  lady  whispered  in  his  ear.  "  You'd 
like  me  for  a  mother  just  as  well  as  Mrs.  Puffer; 
wouldn't  you,  sweetness?  And,  oh,  I'd  love  you — 
love  you  so!  " 

At  this  bold  speech  the  baby  blinked  dazedly; 
then  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  the  better  to  consider 
her  audacious  proposal. 

"  You're  sleepy,  precious,"  inferred  his  self- 
appointed  guardian. 

Somewhat  awkwardly  she  stowed  him  among 
his  blankets  and  pillows.  With  a  sigh  of  content 
the  new  parishioner  tucked  a  small,  but  useful 


76  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

thumb  into  his  mouth  and  resigned  himself  to 
blissful  slumber. 

'*  If  you  were  mine,"  murmured  the  unprin- 
cipled person  who  had  thus  deliberately  broken 
the  tenth  commandment,  "  I  should  never,  never 
leave  you  outside  to  cry,  while  I  was  being  fitted 
for  a  stupid  dress." 

Then  she  began  wheeling  the  perambulator 
slowly  up  and  down  the  sidewalk,  though  she 
might  better  have  gone  about  her  business  which 
chanced  to  be  a  meeting  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  and 
Missionary  Society. 

**  If  I  should  stop  wheeling  him  for  a  single 
minute,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  excused  herself,  menda- 
ciously, *'  he  would  certainly  wake  up  and  cry. 
And  if  Malvina  Bennett  has  pinned  a  draped  skirt 
on  Mrs.  Puffer,  she'll  insist  on  basting  it  before 
she  lets  her  go." 

There  was  a  shabby,  mud-bespattered  motor-car 
standing  before  the  next  house  but  one.  Mrs. 
Pettibone  eyed  it  with  passing  interest.  There 
were  very  few  automobiles  in  the  conservative 
village  of  Innisfield.  This  one,  she  knew,  belonged 
to  Dr.  North;  and  its  presence  before  a  house 
usually  betokened  sickness  within.  She  wondered 
vaguely  if  Mrs.  Salter  was  suffering  with  another 
of  her  **  spells,"  and  whether  it  was  her  duty  (as 
the  pastor's  wife)  to  stop  and  inquire. 

Just  then  the  door  flew  open,  as  if  under  the 
urge    of    an    impatient   hand,    and    Dr.    North 


MALVINA  BENNETT,  DRESSMAKER    77 

emerged,  in  the  act  of  pulling  on  his  driving 
gloves.  He  was  a  tall  stout  man,  with  a  weather- 
beaten  face  half  hidden  by  a  great  grey  beard. 

"  The  doctor,"  complained  certain  of  his  pa- 
tients, "  was  always  in  a  hurry."  He  had  aban- 
doned his  overworked  grey  cob  in  favor  of  an 
automobile,  in  a  day  when  the  latter  means  of 
locomotion  w^as  no  less  than  an  extravagance ;  and 
thereafter  appeared  always  in  the  act  of  hastily 
entering  houses,  from  w^hich  he  as  abruptly 
emerged;  the  periods  between  being  wholly  neg- 
ligible. 

To  Mrs.  Pettibone's  great  astonishment  this 
energetic  practitioner  stopped  short  at  sight  of 
her,  one  foot  already  in  his  car. 

^'  Good-afternoon,  Miss  Philura,"  he  hailed  her 
in  his  big,  hearty  voice — a  voice,  be  it  said,  which 
had  more  than  once  recalled  a  trembling  soul  from 
the  very  brink  of  a  new  and  untried  existence  to 
the  dear,  familiar  duties  of  a  mundane  life — 
^'  that  your  baby?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  blushed  becomingly. 

**  He's  Mrs.  Puffer's  baby,"  she  explained, 
with  an  unconscious  sigh.  ^'  I'm  just  taking  care 
of  him,  while  his  mother  has  a  dress  fitted  at  Mal- 
vina  Bennett's." 

Dr.  North  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  rather 
shabby  perambulator,  exuding  pink  and  blue 
woolly  things ;  then  at  the  little  lady  who  grasped 
its  handle.    There  was  no  mistaking  the  look  of 


78  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

wistful  eagerness  in  her  face.  The  doctor  had 
seen  it  many  times  before  in  the  course  of  a  long- 
ish  practice,  most  of  which  had  concerned  itself 
with  women. 

''  He — he's  a  lovely  baby,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  curiously  embarrassed. 

She  stopped  to  tuck  a  pink  blanket  under  a  blue 
one,  and  pat  the  rotund  little  bunch  beneath  with 
a  gentle  hand. 

"  Of  course — of  course!  "  agreed  the  doctor 
cheerfully.  "  The  Puffer  children  are  a  fine 
healthy  lot.  Pity  there  aren't  more  like  'em. 
(Well,  I  must  be  off.    Good-day!" 

The  car  leapt  forward ;  then  paused  obediently 
Tinder  the  doctor's  masterful  hand. 

''  Oh,  I  say,  Miss  Philura! — er — I  beg  your 
pardon — Mrs.  Pettibone — Can't  seem  to  get  used 
to  the  change — why  don't  you  adopt  one?  " 

"  Adopt! — You  don't  mean — a — a  baby?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly;  just  that.  You're  fond  of  chil- 
dren; and  heaven  knows  there's  plenty  of  poor 
little  things  that  need  a  mother.    Think  it  over." 

He  was  gone  in  a  spatter  of  liquid  mud,  leaving 
the  dazed  and  agitated  recipient  of  his  counsels 
to  consider  his  surprising  suggestion. 

Plenty  of  children  without  mothers;  and — yes, 
plenty  of  mothers  without  children.  That  was 
what  he  meant.  Could  this  in  any  wise  satisfy 
the  secret  longing  which  of  late  had  begun  to 
clamour  more  loudly  than  ever  within  her? 


MALVINA  BENNETT,  DRESSMAKER     79 

Mrs.  Pettibone  recalled  stealthy  moments  spent 
in  the  seclusion  of  her  mother's  attic  caressing  a 
battered  doll,  once  the  joy  and  solace  of  her  child- 
hood. On  her  twelfth  birthday  the  doll  had  been 
summarily  relegated  to  the  garret.  ''  Big  girls 
in  their  teens,"  she  was  told  rebukingly,  "  did 
not  play  with  doll-babies."  But  the  bereaved  lit- 
tle mother  bedewed  her  patchwork  with  more  than 
one  bitter  tear,  before  she  ceased  to  mourn  the 
pink  and  white  image  which  had  been  "  just  the 
right  size  to  hug." 

But  there  had  always  been  something:  a  stray 
kitten,  sick  with  hunger;  a  puppy  with  a  broken 
leg;  a  forlorn  chicken,  hatched  in  the  middle  of 
winter  by  a  fatuous  old  hen  who  refused  to  mother 
her  offspring;  even  a  rose-bush,  rooted  out  from  a 
neighbouring  garden  and  doomed  to  ignominious 
death  in  the  ash-barrel,  because,  forsooth,  its 
cheerful  blossoms  were  ''  a  common  shade  of 
red," — all  these  bits  of  almost  unnoticed  wreckage 
on  the  tide  of  life  had  Miss  Philura  painstakingly 
rescued  and  loved  back  into  life  and  beauty.  The 
starving  kitten  had  developed  into  the  big  maltese 
cat,  which  now  patrolled  the  ministerial  precincts 
with  a  magnificent  air  of  condescension.  The 
puppy,  in  due  course,  recovered,  and  thereafter 
trotted  on  four  good  legs  after  the  butter- 
woman  's  wagon ;  while  the  lone  chicken,  gro^^^l  to 
a  lordly  cock,  reigned  paramount  over  a  flock  of 
silly  hens  with  stern  masterfulness.    As  for  the 


80  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

disgraced  rose-busli;  planted  in  Miss  Philura's  lit- 
tle garden,  enriched  and  watered  and  gniarded 
from  encroaching  insects,  it  had  become  a  glory 
and  a  delight.  The  '^  common  red  "  of  its  de- 
spised blossoms  had  deepened  and  brightened  into 
a  crimson  splendour  which  drew  even  the  eyes  of 
the  disdainful  person  next  door.  He  came;  he 
saw;  he  leaned  across  the  fence  with  an  ingratiat- 
ing smile. 

**  Miss  Philura,  won't  you  tell  me  the  name  of 
that  wonderful  rose  of  yours?  "he  entreated.  "  I 
don't  think  we  have  anything  like  it  in  our  rose- 
garden." 

Then,  oh,  then  was  the  moment  of  rare  triumph 
which  crowned  the  work  of  many  months. 

'*  I  call  this  the  ash-barrel  rose,"  quoth  Miss 
Philura,  very  bright-eyed  and  demure. 

Something  of  all  this — memory  and  retrospect 
and  vague  forecasting  of  the  future  flitted  through 
Mrs.  Pettibone's  thoughts,  as  she  continued  to 
wheel  the  Puffer  baby  up  and  down  the  sunshiny 
street.  Then,  quite  breathless  and  exuberantly 
apologetic,  descended  Mrs.  Puffer. 

* '  I  am  so  sorry !  What  must  you  think  of  me  ? 
But  really,  dear  Mrs.  Pettibone,  you  needn't  have 
bothered;  his  pacifier — Oh,  naughty  boy;  he  has 
his  thumb  in  his  mouth !  I  never  allow  him  to  suck 
his  thumb.  It  ruins  the  shape  of  the  mouth, 
dwarfs  the  thumb,  and  causes  adenoids. — You 
didn't  know  it?    Of  course  not!    How  could  you? 


MALVINA  BENNETT,  DRESSMAKER     81 

I'll  take  liim  now;  and  I  do  hope  you're  not  all 
tired  out!  " 

How  complacent  and  self-satisfied  slie  looked, 
and  with  what  scarifying  indifference  she  bounced 
the  perambulator  over  the  curb  in  her  haste  to 
depart.  Mrs.  Pettibone  stood  watching  the 
mother  of  many  children  with  undefined  resent- 
ment, for  a  fleeting  moment,  which  yet  marked 
a  momentous  resolve.  .  .  .  Then  she  walked 
sedately  toward  the  church,  where  ''  The  Ladies  " 
were  diligently  sewing  calico  blouses  for  *'  the 
Mountain  Whites. '  * 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   ORNES 

Censorious  persons — of  whom  there  were  a  se- 
lect few  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Innisfield — an- 
nually criticised  the  Ornes'  dooryard.  There 
were  too  many  flowers,  they  said,  of  too  many 
varieties  growing  in  the  rounds  and  squares  and 
crescents  Caleb  Orne  had  pridefully  laid  out  for 
his  young  wife  back  in  the  fifties.  That  sort  of 
thing  was  well  enough,  they  pointed  out,  when  one 
had  plenty  of  money  and  could  afford  the  time 
necessary  to  the  cultivation  of  a  large  flower- 
garden.  But,  as  everybody  knew,  the  Ornes  had 
little  to  depend  upon  except  the  vegetables  old 
Orne  raised  in  the  half-acre  plot  behind  the  house 
and  the  milk  of  the  two  cows  pastured  in  the 
dwindling  orchard.  Grandma  Orne — as  people 
called  the  apple-cheeked  old  woman — owned  a 
loom,  and  eked  out  the  family  livelihood  by  con- 
verting myriad  balls  of  carpet  rags  into  sober, 
substantial  breadths  of  floor-covering,  justly  es- 
teemed by  all  thrifty  housewives. 

Then  there  was  Milly.  It  was  Milly  who  worked 
among  the  flowers,  rising  often  in  the  earliest 
flush  of  summer  dawns  to  weed  and  water  and  dig 
about  the  old-fashioned  shrubs  and  perennials, 

83 


THE  OENES  83 

whicli  had  grown  and  flourished  and  multiplied 
exceedingly  since  the  day  Grandfather  Orne 
planted  them  there.  Grandfather  used  to  joke 
Milly  about  her  gardening,  declaring  that  she  stole 
the  fresh  colour  in  her  cheeks  from  the  pinks  and 
roses,  long  before  anybody  was  up  to  "  ketch  her 
at  it."  As  for  her  eyes,  no  flowers-de-luce,  lark- 
spurs, bachelor's  buttons  or  johnny- jump-ups 
could  ''  show  a  purtier  blue."  He  always  ended, 
did  Grandfather,  with  a  chastening  comparison  of 
Milly 's  **  looks  "  with  the  superlative  charms  of 
Grandmother,  in  her  younger  days : 

"  The'  ain't  no  use  o'  talkin',  ye  can't  hold  a 
candle  t'  yer  Gran 'ma,  when  I  married  her!  "  the 
old  man  would  chuckle  gleefully.  '  *  Tell  ye  what, 
Gran 'ma  an'  me  was  one  of  the  finest  lookin* 
couples  anywheres  around;  wa'n't  we,  Gran 'ma? 
Fer  all  I'm  s'  bent  over  an'  wrinkled-up  now  I 
was  the  tallest,  straightest,  best-lookin'  chap  ye'd 
want  t'  see.  Had  m'  pick  of  all  the  girls.  Tell  ye, 
ye  don't  see  no  more  like  I  was  in  them  days; 
ain't  that  so.  Gran 'ma? — Clean  es  a  whistle  an' 
strong. — Say,  I'll  bet  I  c'd  'a'  lifted  two  o'  them 
little  whipper-snappers  'at  comes  buzzin'  round 
Milly,  here,  an'  thro  wed  'em  clean  over  the  barn. 
Yes,  sir!  Yer  Gran 'pa  wa'n't  no  slouch  of  a 
man." 

But  if  the  girl  ventured  ever  so  timidly  to 
touch  upon  later  family  history,  with  questions 
concerning  her  father  and  mother — both  of  whom 


84  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

had  died  in  her  infancy — the  old  man  would  stamp 
away,  pretending  not  to  hear,  his  wrinkled  old  face 
drawn  into  folds  and  puckers  of  wrathful  grief. 

*'I  wouldn't  pester  Gran 'pa  no  more,  ef  I  was 
you,  honey,"  counseled  her  grandmother  sooth- 
ingly. "  It  makes  him  kind  o'  crabbity  an'  out-o'- 
sorts  t'  hark  back  t'  th'  time  when  you  was  little. 
Y'u  see,  honey,  your  mother  was  all  the  child  we 
had;  so  your  gran 'pa  nach'ally  set  a  lot  o'  store 
by  her.  An'  our  Milly — she — died  when  you  was 
born.  That's  why  I  wouldn't  ask  Gran 'pa  no  more 
questions  about  them  days,  if  I  was  you." 

"  Was  my  mother  pretty,  like  me?  "  inquired 
little  Milly,  innocently. 

''  Did  you  ever  hear  th'  like  o'  that!  "  com- 
mented Mrs.  Orne,  rebukingly.  "  Who  said  you 
was  pretty,  I'd  like  t'  know?  You  don't  want  t' 
pay  no  'tention  t'  Gran 'pa,  when  he's  gassin* 
about  your  looks.  .  .  .  He  can't  see  s'  very  well 
without  his  specs;  most  anybody  'd  look  pretty  t' 
him.  .  .  .  '  Pretty  is,  as  pretty  doos  ' — you 
want  t'  remember  that.  .  .  .  But — ^yes;  you  do 
favour  our  Milly  consid'able.  She  was  a  mite 
taller,  an'  her  hair  was — some  yellower  'n  yours. 
It  come  clear  down  t'  her  knees,  a-curlin'  all  the 
way.  .  .  .  My!  I  r 'member  how  I  used  t'  comb 
it  fer  her,  out  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  She  liked  it  done 
that  way. — Her  a-settin'  in  one  o'  th'  kitchen 
cheers  under  the  apple  tree,  an'  me  a-coaxin'  that 
beautiful,  soft,  shinin'  hair  through  a  big  comb 


THE  OKNES  85 

I'd  bought  a-purpose.  Land!  a  fine-tooth  comb, 
sech  es  me  an'  Gran 'pa  always  used,  couldn't  get 
down  t'  her  head  nohow.  ..." 

The  old  woman's  faded  eyes  shone  with  sudden 
tears.  She  wiped  them  stealthily  on  her  gingham 
apron. 

*'  Our  Milly  was  light-complected,  like  you," 
she  added,  softly,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  And  my  father,"  entreated  little  Milly. 
*'  Won't  you  tell  me? — Was  he — do  I  look 
like " 

**  We  wa'n't  neither  of  us  willin'  you  should 
bear  his  name,"  the  old  woman  said,  stiffly.  "  Me 
an'  Gran 'pa  'dopted  you  right  after  our  Milly 
died.  .  .  .  You  was  a  poor  little  wailin'  mite  of 
a  thing.  I  never  'xpected  t'  raise  you  in  them 
days.  .  .  .  Now  you  run  along,  honey;  an' mind, 
you  don't  worry  your  Gran 'pa  no  more.  Like 
enough  he'd  git  right  up  on  his  year,  an'  scold 
real  hard,  ef  you  was  t'  try  it." 

So  little  Milly  had  weeded  her  flowers  and  wiped 
the  dishes  for  Grandma,  and  combed  Grandpa's 
thin  grey  hair  with  the  fine-tooth  comb  of  a  Sun- 
day afternoon,  while  he  dozed  peacefully  in  his 
chair — all  under  the  luminous  cloud  of  romantic 
mystery,  which  in  truth  was  no  mystery  at  all; 
but  only  one  of  those  melancholy  commonplaces 
people  bury  out  of  sight  with  their  dead.  The 
short,  woful  story  of  the  first  Millicent  Orne  was 
no  secret  to  many ; — but  few  ever  spoke  of  it,  ex- 


86  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

cept  by  way  of  whispered  comment  on  the  fresh 
young  beauty  of  the  girl  who  was  growing  into 
blooming  womanhood  under  the  guardianship  of 
the  two  old  people. 

They  hoped  she  wouldn't  go  the  way  of  her 
mother,  and  wondered,  in  discreet  whispers,  what 
had  become  of  the  handsome  young  stranger  who 
had  come  to  Innisfield  one  summer  to  recover  the 
health  shattered  by  a  long  illness.  He  had  gone 
away  in  the  autumn,  and  the  following  spring  Mil- 
licent  Orne  died.  That  was  all.  And  even  the 
more  censorious  could  see  no  reason  why  little 
Milly  should  know.  Grief  and  shame  had  left 
their  mark  on  the  two  old  people.  But  they  bore 
the  ever  recurrent  smart  of  the  old  wound  with 
patience.  And  sometimes — for  thus  benignantly 
do  the  passing  years  soothe  and  ameliorate  mortal 
agonies — they  almost  forgot  the  green  mound, 
once  a  gaping  grave,  in  the  exquisite  renaissance 
of  Milly. 

Quite  simply  and  openly  Mrs.  Orne  cherished  a 
single  ambition  for  her  grand-daughter. 

*'  I  want  Milly  should  get  married,"  she  would 
say  to  Grandfather,  as  the  two  watched  the  girl 
flitting  about  among  the  flowers.  ''  I  want  she 
should  marry — young.  It'll  be  a  heap  better  for 
her." 

At  this  straightforward  avowal  on  the  part  of 
his  wife  Grandfather  Orne  would  scowl  and  clear 
his  throat  querulously. 


THE  ORNES  87 

"  The'  ain't  no  young  fellow  'round  these  parts 
good  enough  fer  our  Milly,"  he  would  declare, 
obdurately.  "  I  don't  see  why  you  talk  the  way 
you  do,  Mother.  Milly 's  all  right,  jes  's  she  is, 
a-livin'  with  us.  I  don'  wan'  t'  part  with  her, 
'n'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to,  neither." 

Maybe  Grandpa  was  losing  his  memory,  re- 
flected Mrs.  Orne,  her  faded  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 
She  guessed  it  would  be  a  blessing  if  he  did.  .  .  . 

None  the  less  she  began,  when  Milly  was  little 
more  than  sixteen,  to  set  cunningly  baited  traps 
for  the  honest  young  farmers  of  the  countryside. 
Spicy  cakes,  shining  twists  of  molasses  taffy,  or 
big,  fat  crullers,  suited  to  lusty  young  appetites, 
and  flanked  by  pitchers  of  raspberry  "  shrub  "  or 
new  cider  were  always  forthcoming  when  ' '  Milly 
had  a  beau." 

"  You  can't  never  tell,"  Grandma  would  mur- 
mur mysteriously,  as  she  passed  her  grand-daugh- 
ter's admirers  in  keen-eyed  review  through  a 
crack  of  the  door.  "I'm  a-goin'  t'  keep  m'  eye 
on  'em — an'  on  her!  " 

To  Milly,  uneasily  conscious  of  the  old  lady's 
espionage,  she  would  say: 

"  You  can't  be  too  pertic'lar,  honey,  when  it 
comes  t'  dealin'  with  men-folks.  The'  ain't  a 
girl  alive  that  rightly  understan's  'em.  But  I'll 
tell  you  one  thing  ' ' — lowering  her  voice  and  nod- 
ding her  wise  old  head — "  don't  you  never  let  one 
of  'em  kiss  you;  ner  s'  much  as  lay  a  finger  on 


88  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

you,  till  you're  engaged  t'  be  married,  an'  me  an' 
Gran 'pa  's  gi'n  our  blessin'.  Now  you  mind  what 
I  say. — ^Yes,  I  know  the's  plenty  of  foolish  girls  as 
'11  tell  you  different ;  an'  like  's  not  you  think  your 
Gran 'ma's  too  old  t'  know  what's  what.  But  I 
reckon  men-folks  's  'bout  the  same  's  they  was 
when  I  was  young;  in  fact,  styles  ain't  changed 
much,  es  fur  es  they're  concerned,  since  Bible 
days.  .  .  .  'Course  I  wouldn't  want  t'  say  any- 
thin'  'gainst  the  Patriarchs;  but  I  sh'd  think 
they'd  reelly  hate  t'  have  accounts  o'  some  o'  their 
doin's  handed  down  f 'om  generation  to  generation, 
'n'  nice  women  a-readin'  of  'em  in  course;  'n' 
hevin'  t'  skip  chapters  in  Sunday-school,  'n'  all. 
But  I  want  you  sh'd  git  married,  Milly,  an'  have  a 
good,  honest  husban'  t'  take  keer  of  you,  when  me 
an'  Gran 'pa  's  laid  away." 

But  at  this  Milly  would  stop  the  old  woman's 
mouth  with  one  of  the  kisses  forbidden  to  men, 
crying  out  that  she  didn't  want  any  husband. 
Why  should  she — when  she  was  perfectly  happy 
as  she  was? 

A  sentiment  loudly  applauded  by  Grandfather, 
but  over  which  Mrs.  Orne  shook  her  head 
dubiously. 

"  This  ain't  no  kind  of  a  world  for  a  lone 
woman,"  was  her  disparaging  opinion.  *'  Not  that 
I  think  much  o'  men-folks;  th'  most  of  'em  's  a 
pretty  poor  lot — f'om  the  Patriarchs,  down." 

*'  All  but  me,"  Grandpa  would  crow,  with  a 


THE  ORNES  89 

prodigious  wink  at  Milly.  A  proceeding  which 
invariably  elicited  a  dignified  reproof  from 
Grandma,  to  the  effect  that  no  reel  gen '1 'man  ever 
opened  and  shut  one  eye  that-a-way;  and,  say 
what  one  would,  a  conceited,  uppity  man  was 
enough  to  make  a  body  wish  t'  die  single. 

Milly  Orne  was  eighteen  when  the  daffodils 
came  into  bloom,  (Grandmother  couldn't  bear  the 
sight  of  a  daffodil)  and  by  that  token  she  was 
prettier  than  ever,  as  Mrs.  Pettibone  had  ob- 
served. Yet  she  was  neither  safely  married,  nor 
even  engaged,  a  fact  which  Mrs.  Orne  took  sadly 
to  heart. 

But  when  the  old  lady  cited  the  warning 
prophecy  concerning  ''  w^oods  "  and  *'  crooked 
sticks,"  with  pungent  comments  of  her  own,  the 
girl  put  her  pretty  head  on  one  side,  her  eyes  scat- 
tering blue  sparkles  of  mirth. 

'*  They're  all  crooked  sticks.  Gran 'ma,"  she 
laughed,  ''  and  when  I've  come  quite  through  the 
wood  I'll  see  a  fairy  prince,  riding  toward  me, 
and  then " 

*'  For  God's  sake,  don't  say  that,  Milly!  "  cried 
Mrs.  Orne,  shrilly.  All  the  colour  dropped  out 
of  her  old  face,  leaving  it  grey  and  twisted  and 
gaunt,  like  a  dead  tree  in  the  wind.  "  Don't — 
don't  say  it!  I — I  guess  mebbe  I  ain't  feelin'  s* 
well — this  mornin'.  Get  me  a  swaller  o'  tea, 
honey,  'n' — don't  say  nothin'  t'  Gran 'pa." 

She  still  sat  bowed  over,  shivering  a  little  and 


90  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

murmuring  to  herself,  when  the  girl  brought  her 
the  cup  of  hot  tea  she  had  hastened  to  prepare. 

"  You — didn't  mean  it,  did  you,  honey?  "  she 
asked,  raising  herself  to  peer  into  the  girl's  face. 

''  Mean  what? — What  did  I  say  to  worry 
you.  Gran 'ma?  "  entreated  Milly.  "  I  didn't 
mean " 

"  About  the — the — you  ain't  met  no  strange 
man  lately;  have  you? — Somebody  me  an' 
Gran 'pa  don't  know?  I'm  kind  o'  feared  of — 
strangers,  honey." 

The  girl  soothed  her  with  tears  and  laughter 
and  denials,  and  presently,  when  the  steady, 
thump-thump-thump  of  the  loom  proclaimed  the 
old  woman's  restored  equanimity,  she  stole  away 
on  pretence  of  carrying  flowers  to  the  minister's 
wife. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   DOOR   AJAR 

MiLLY  Orne  had  known  Mrs.  Pettibone  for  as- 
many  years  as  she  could  well  remember.  It  was 
*'  Miss  Philura,"  indeed,  who  had  taught  the  girl 
many  a  floral  secret  when  Milly  was  a  faithfully 
visited  member  of  that  conscientious  lady's  Bible 
Class.  In  her  new  estate  the  wife  of  the  minister 
appeared  as  if  mysteriously  translated  to  another 
plane  of  existence.  Milly  gazed  at  her  with  re- 
spectful admiration  as  she  replied  with  brief  sen- 
tences to  various  gentle  inquiries : 

*'  Yes  'm,  thank  you,  Gran 'father's  pretty  well 
— only  his  back.  He  won't  let  me  dig  all  the  gar- 
den, and  the  loam's  stiff  and  heavy  in  the  spring. 
Gran 'mother  is  making  some  carpet  for  Mrs. 
Buckthorn. — Yes  'm,  I've  learned  to  weave;  but 
Mrs.  Buckthorn's  so  particular,  Gran 'ma 
dassent  let  me  weave  her  carpet.  I  can't  make  it 
quite  so  even  yet. ' ' 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  sitting  opposite  her  young 
visitor  in  the  cool  light  of  the  shaded  parlour, 
marvelled  anew  at  the  fresh  loveliness  of  the  girl's 
face. 

''  But  you're  a  great  help  and  comfort  to  the 
old    people,    Milly,"    she    said,    encouragingly. 

91 


92  THE  HEART  OF  PHH^URA 

* '  Mr.  Pettibone  and  I  were  speaking  of  it  only  the 
other  day. ' ' 

The  girl  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  hands 
gripping  each  other  in  her  lap. 

"  It — it  is  that  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about," 
she  murmured,  "I'm  afraid  I'm  not — so  very 
much  help.  I — wondered  if  you  could  advise 
me?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone 's  mind  reverted  for  a  swift  in- 
stant to  the  tragedy  of  eighteen  years  back.  She 
hoped  no  one  had  told  the  child. 

"  You'll  tell  me  all  about  it,  won't  you?  "  she 
said,  trembling  a  little  under  the  weight  of  her 
responsibilities.  ''  Then,  if  I  can't  advise  you, 
I'll  ask  Mr.  Pettibone  when  he  comes  in." 

She  straightened  herself  rather  proudly. 

''  Mr.  Pettibone,"  she  repeated,  "  will  be  sure 
to  know." 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  breath. 

*'  I  want  to  work,"  she  said,  abruptly. 

"  But  you  do,  my  dear, — all  those  lovely 
flowers,  and " 

The  girl  made  a  disparaging  gesture. 

''  I  want  to  earn  money,"  she  said.  **  I 
must!  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  looked  distressed. 

**  I  do  hope,"  she  began,  "  you'll  let  me  consult 
Mr.  Pettibone.     The  deacons' fund " 

**  Oh,  I  don't  mean  we  are  cold  or  hungry," 
cried  the  girl,  with  a  proud  upflinging  of  her 


THE  DOOR  AJAR  93 

pretty  head.  "  We're  not  in  need  of  charity — 
yet." 

"  My  dear  Milly,"  protested  the  minister's 
wife,  very  pink  and  agitated,  "■  I  didn't " 

"  Won't  you  let  me  tell  you?  "  the  girl  inter- 
rupted. "  Of  course  it  isn't  the  same  now  as 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  didn't  think  very  much 
then ;  nor — nor  notice  how  different  I  was  to  other 
girls " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  gasped  involuntarily. 

*'  Oh,  I  hope  no  one  has  been  so  thoughtless," 
she  murmured.    "  Go  on,  please." 

Milly  gazed  at  her  in  some  perplexity. 

**  Other  girls  had  fathers  and  mothers,"  she 
explained.  "  I  had  neither;  and  I  didn't  realise 
that  Gran 'father  an'  Gran 'mother  would  grow  old 
and  feeble  while  I — before  I  was " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  nodded  understandingly. 

"  You  were  always  a  good  girl,  Milly,"  she 
said.  "  You've  been  a  comfort  to  them,  my  dear, 
indeed,  you  don't  know  how  much.  And — every- 
thing will  come  right,  if  you  '11  only  be  patient  and 
— trust.  Perhaps  you  think  I'm  saying  this  just 
because  I'm  the  minister's  wife. — You  do  think 
so;  don't  you?  " 

"  No'm,  I  don't,"  the  girl  said,  politely.  *'  An' 
I've  tried — I  do  try.  But  Gran 'father  can't 
work  so  hard  much  longer.  Yesterday  when  he 
was  planting  the  garden  his  hands  trembled  so  the 
seeds  spilled  all  over  the  ground.    He  didn't  want 


94  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

me  to  see,  and  I  pretended  not  to.  And  the  roof 
leaks  so  the  rain  comes  right  down  through  the 
kitchen  ceiling.  Gran 'pa's  fixed  it  the  best  he 
could;  but  nearly  all  the  shingles  are  rotten.  It'll 
be  a  lot  worse  b'  next  winter." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  instant  with  breathless  ex- 
pressions of  sympathy  and  hope.  One  shouldn't 
ever  expect  misfortune,  she  reminded  herself  and 
Milly;  but  only  the  good,  which  was  everywhere, 
ready  to  become  one 's  very  own,  if  one  would  only 
take  it. 

*'  But  not  a  roof?  "  inquired  Milly,  doubtfully, 
*'  and  new  flannels  for  Gran 'mother,  and " 

*'  Everything!  "  afifirmed  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
stoutly. 

Her  blue  eyes  became  rather  wistful,  as  she  re- 
peated *'  Everything!  "  in  a  voice  so  low  Milly 
could  scarcely  hear  it. 

*'  It  must  be  nice  to  think  so,"  sighed  the  girl, 
unbelievingly. 

She  had  been  playing  with  her  handkerchief, 
rolling  it  into  a  tight  ball  at  which  she  gazed 
nnseeingly. 

"  I  wanted  to  work  in  the  mills  last  winter," 
she  said  at  last;  ^'  but  they  wouldn't  let  me." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  said, 
warmly.    *'  That  would  never  do!  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  work  in  the 
mills,"  persisted  Milly.    *'  I  ought  to  work — to 


THE  DOOR  AJAR  95 

take  care  of  them.  What  will  become  of  them  if  I 
don't?  " 

She  gazed  at  the  minister's  wife  from  under 
puckered  brows. 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  thinking  of  that  other  Millicent 
Orne,  was  silent,  striving  to  share  the  girl's  per- 
plexities from  the  vantage  ground  of  her  sadder 
knowledge. 

Presently  Milly  spoke  again. 

''  I — I'd  like  to  tell  you  something  else,"  she 
said,  her  lashes  lowered  upon  pink  cheeks.  "  If 
you — if  you  won't  think  me  silly?  " 

''  No,  indeed,  my  dear,"  promised  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone, surreptitiously  whisking  a  tear  from  her 
lashes. 

*'  Gran 'mother  wants  me  to — to  be  married," 
Milly  confessed  hurriedly.  ^'  She — talks  to  me 
about  it.  But — but.  Miss  Philura,  how  can  I  be 
married,  when — I  don't  love  anyone?  " 

''  You  can't,  of  course — certainly  not,"  mur- 
mured the  minister's  wife,  aware  of  Mrs.  Orne's 
ambitions  for  her  grand-daughter,  as  well  as  the 
pitiful  reason  for  them.  ''  But,  perhaps — some- 
time  One  doesn't  always  know  of  all  the 

beautiful  things  in  store " 

The  misused  handkerchif  was  being  swiftly 
rolled  into  a  slim  white  rod  under  the  girl 's  busy 
fingers.    Mrs.  Pettibone  watched  them  absently. 

'*  That's    what    I    said    to    Gran 'mother    this. 


96  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

morning,"  said  Milly.  ''  She  was  telling  me  I'd 
go  through  the  woods  and  pick  up  a  crooked  stick 
at  last." 

■Mrs.  Pettibone  made  a  slight  gesture  of  impa- 
tient dissent. 

''  But  I  can't  help  it,"  the  girl  went  on.  **  I 
couldn't   marry — just  to   be   married,   and   I've 

never  seen  anyone — around  here Perhaps,  as 

you  say,  someone  will  come,  some  day, — somebody 
I  haven't  always  known.   .    .    ." 

Her  eyes,  suddenly  lifted  from  their  trivial  task, 
surprised  a  look  of  poignant  distress  on  the  older 
woman's  face. 

*'  Oh,  you  do  think  me  silly!  "  she  cried,  with 
sudden  sharp  resentment.  "  You  are  looking  at 
me  just  as  Gran 'ma  does  when  I — ■ — " 

*'  No,  no,  my  dear.  You  are  quite  mistaken," 
Mrs.  Pettibone  denied,  hurriedly.  ''  And — that 
reminds  me  of  something  I  had  forgotten:  I 
wonder  if  you  chance  to  know  anything  about  the 
family  who  have  taken  the  old  Eggleston  place 
for  the  summer?  " 

Milly  shook  her  head  dejectedly.  She  was 
thinking  she  must  go ;  and  that,  after  all,  her  visit 
to  the  parsonage  had  been  useless. 

"  Only  this  morning,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  said, 
with  some  eagerness,  ^'  I  received  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Hill.  I  was  very  much  surprised;  but  Mr. 
Pettibone  says  it  was  because  we  called  on  them. 
.    .    .  We  had  just  come  from  the  farm  the  day 


THE  DOOE  AJAR  97 

we  stopped  at  your  house  and  you  gave  me  the 
daffodils.    You  remember?  " 

Milly  was  drawing  on  her  cotton  gloves.  She 
wished  she  had  not  come. 

*'  They  seemed  like  nice  people — the  Hills,  I 
mean — but — different,  somehow — not  used,  per- 
haps, to  doing  their  own  housework.  Young  Mrs. 
Hill  is  hardly  more  than  a  child,  and  not — I 
imagine  she  may  find  it  rather  lonely  up  there. 
.  .  .  They  want  someone  to  help  in  the  house, 
and  Mrs.  Hill  mentioned  thirty  dollars  a  month." 

The  girl  drew  a  sudden  breath. 

*'  Do  you  mean  that  I — are  you  thinking " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  wrinkled  her  forehead  per- 
plexedly. 

''  It  just  occurred  to  me  that  possibly — ^Yet  I'm 
not  sure  that  it  would  do.  Really,  I  ought  to  have 
consulted  Mr.  Pettibone  before  speaking  of  it  to 
you." 

**  I  could  earn  over  a  hundred  dollars  before 
fall,"  cried  Milly,  her  face  shining  with  joy. 

"  But  you  would  be  a — servant  in  their  house. 
I'm  afraid  they're  the  sort  of  people  who  would 
think  of  you  in  just  that  way;  besides " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  vaguely  uneasy,  as  she  re- 
called the  older  Mrs.  Hill's  opaque  eyes. 

'*  I  fear  your  grandmother  would  object,"  she 
finished.  ''  There  would  be  hard  work  to  do, 
and " 

Milly  Ome  lifted  her  blond  head  proudly. 


98  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

''I'm  not  afraid  of  work,"  she  said,  ''  nor  of 
what  they  might  think  of  me." 

In  the  end,  she  went  away  carrying  one  of  Mrs. 
Pettibone's  small  sheets  of  note-paper,  folded  into 
a  neat  triangle,  after  a  fashion  obtaining  in  Mrs. 
Pettibone's  girlhood  for  correspondence  of  a 
polite  but  informal  nature,  and  directed  to  Mrs. 
Hill. 

''I'm  afraid  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,  without 
consulting  you,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  told  the  minister 
at  supper  that  night.  "  But  poor  Milly  was  so 
eager,  and  the  opportunity  was  an  unusual  one." 

"  Milly  is  quite  right  in  wanting  to  put  her 
young  shoulder  to  the  wheel,"  pronounced  Mr. 
Pettibone,  whose  nerves  had  been  calmed  by  a 
long  afternoon  spent  in  the  open. 

"  But  we  know  so  little  about  the  Hills,"  ob- 
jected his  wife,  timorously. 

"  We  know  nothing  amiss,"  he  reminded  her. 
"  Really,  my  dear,  for  a  person  who  professes  to 
believe  that  Good  is  All  and  All-Encircling, 
you ' ' 

' '  I  know — I  know, ' '  she  acknowledged,  humbly. 
"I'm  always  forgetting.  One  gets  so  in  the  habit 
of  suspecting  and — and  being  afraid — more  for 
other  people  than  for  oneself." 

The  minister  smiled,  understandingly. 

"  Nevertheless,  one  shouldn't  hang  mill-stones 
of  fear  about  other  people's  necks,"  he  com- 
mented. 


I 


CHAPTER  X 

A  NIGHT  OF  RAIN  AND  THE   MORNING  AFTER 

As  for  Milly  Orne,  she  had  fairly  flown  homeward 
on  the  wings  of  hope  and  ambition.  Already  she 
beheld  in  imagination  a  new  roof  of  shining  yel- 
low shingles  replacing  the  moss-green  expanse  so 
deceitfully  picturesque  under  its  sheltering  apple- 
boughs.  But  there  was  Grandmother  Orne  to 
be  reckoned  with. 

"  Work  out?  "  cried  the  old  woman,  dropping 
her  dish-cloth  and  staring  at  the  girl  over  her 
spectacles.  "  That's  what  it  amounts  to,  in  spite 
of  all  your  pretty  words,  Milly.  No;  I  ain't 
a-goin'  t'  allow  it.  We've  got  along  all  these 
years,  an'  took  care  of  you  b 'sides;  an'  I  guess 
we  c'n  contrive  's  long  's  the  Lord  spares  us." 

^'  Please,  Gran 'mother,"  entreated  the  girl, 
*'  don't  say  no  till  we've  been  to  see  Mrs.  Hill.  It 
wouldn  't  be  like  working  out  in  the  village,  and  I 
could  earn " 

''I'd  work  my  fingers  t'  the  bone,"  the  old 
woman  declared,  "  before  I'd  see  my  Milly 's  child 
a-workin'  in  another  woman's  kitchen!  " 

But  when  Grandfather  came  in  from  the  barn 
his  weather-beaten  old  face  was  drawn  into 
myriad  folds  and  puckers  of  distress.     He  had 

99 


100  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

found  the  dun  cow  lying  dead  in  the  corner  of  the 
pasture,  her  tongue  protruding  from  her  mouth. 

^'  She  must  'a'  et  somethin',''  the  old  man  sur- 
mised, heavily,  "  though  I  don't  know  what  in 
creation  'twas.  She  was  all  right  this  mornin', 
fur's  I  c'd  see;  but  she's  dead  now." 

He  sat  down  by  the  stove,  though  it  was  a  warm 
evening,  and  spread  his  shrivelled  hands  over  the 
griddles. 

''  Yes;  she's  dead,  all  right,"  he  repeated,  in  a 
mumbling  monotone,  "an'  she  was  the  best 
milker  o'  the  two.  Th'  red  heifer,  she's  a-gittin* 
old.  ...  I  dunno — I  dunno.  ..." 

Mrs.  Orne  had  wrapped  her  head  in  her 
checkered  apron  at  the  first  word  and  hobbled  out 
to  the  orchard,  where  the  red  cow,  peacefully  ob- 
livious of  the  tragedy,  was  chewing  her  cud  under 
the  budding  apple-trees.  She  came  in  presently, 
her  glasses  pushed  high  above  her  forehead,  a 
little  angry  spot  of  colour  on  either  cheek. 

''  'Twas  them  russet  apples,  Gran 'pa,"  she 
said,  shrilly.  "  I  tol'  you  not  t'  give  'em  t'  the 
cows.  She  got  one  stuck  in  her  throat  an'  choked 
t'  death.    Plain  es  a  pike-staff!  " 

*'  Them  russets  wa'n't  no  good,"  the  old  man 
objected,  feebly.    "  I  sez  t'  you " 

'^  Yes;  I  know  you  did,  Gran 'pa,  an'  I  tol* 
you " 

*'  Now,  wife,  you  let  me  speak  fer  once,  can't 
ye?  "     The  old  voice  rose  tremulous  but  deter- 


A  NIGHT  OF  EAIN  101 

mined.  **  I  sez  t'  you,  *  Mother,'  I  sez,  '  the  cows 
'11  relish  these  'ere  apples,'  I  sez,  '  an'  they  ain't 
no  good  fer  cookin'  any  more,'  an'  you " 

"  I  gin  in  t'  you,  es  us'al,"  the  woman  said, 
bitterly.  '*  Once  you  git  an  idee  in  yer  head  the' 
can't  nobody  on  airth " 

'*  Please,  Gran 'mother,"  interrupted  Milly, 
winding  her  young  arms  about  the  old  woman's 
neck,  "  don't  scold  poor  Gran 'pa.  He  only 
wanted  to  give  the  cows  a  little  treat." 

*'  But  I  told  him  they  was  likely  to  choke  on 
them  apples.  Ef  he'd  a-took  the  pains  t'  cut  'em 
in  two " 

*'  You  might  'a'  done  that  fur  me,  ef  you  was 
s'  blamed  smart  an'  knowin',"  put  in  Grand- 
father, bitter  in  his  turn,  *'  I  was  tryin'  m'  best 
t'  git  the  beets  an'  peas  int'  the  ground  afore  it 
rained.  Lord!  I  dunno  what  we're  goin'  t'  do 
'thout  that  cow.  She  was  th'  best  milker  o'  th' 
two;  the  red  heifer's  gittin'  old.  .  .  .  Gittin' 
old.  Tha's  what's  the  matter  with  all  of  us,  I 
guess — gittin'  old  an'  foolish." 

**  I'm  not  getting  old,  Gran 'father,"  cried  little 
Milly,  her  pink  cheek  pressed  softly  against 
his  withered  one.  "  And  I'll  not  allow  you  to 
say  you're  foolish.  You're  the  wisest  man  I 
know." 

*•  Think  so,  honey?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  despondently. 


102  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

*'  Nope,  I  ain't.  I  ain't  never  really  held  up 
my  head  since  your  mother  died.  I'd  ought  t'  'a* 
suspicioned  that  young  feller " 

"  Gran 'pa!  " 

Mrs.  Orne's  voice  was  sharp  with  fear. 

'^  Yes,  Mother;  tha's  so.  I  f ergot.  But  I  ain't 
a-goin'  t'  say  no  more." 

He  lay  down  presently  on  the  old  lounge  and 
Milly  covered  him  warmly  with  the  crazy-quilt 
she  had  pieced  the  winter  before. 

^'  I  guess  he'll  feel  better  when  he  wakes  up," 
the  girl  said,  as  she  tucked  the  gay  covering  ten- 
derly about  the  bent  shoulders. 

Her  lips  were  set  in  firm,  sweet  curves  as  she 
hurried  the  remaining  dishes  to  the  pantry  shelf 
and  made  all  tidy  for  the  night.  Mrs.  Orne  did 
not  appear  to  notice  the  girl's  movements.  She 
had  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  window,  her 
withered  lips  moving  soundlessly,  her  faded  eyes 
fixed  on  vacancy.  More  and  more  often  of  late 
Milly  had  come  upon  her  thus.  To-night,  some- 
thing in  the  aspect  of  the  dim,  little  room — the 
old  man,  already  stertorously  asleep,  and  the 
grandmother's  white  head,  silhouetted  against 
the  sombre  reds  and  purples  of  sunset — stirred, 
poignant — intolerable,  in  the  young  girl's  breast. 
It  was  as  though  for  once  she  saw  them  through 
other  eyes — other,  but  not  alien.  ...  A  great 
aching  tenderness  possessed  her.  She  fell  upon 
her  knees  at  her  grandmother's  side. 


A  NIGHT  OF  EAIN  103 

' '  You  will  let  me  help !  ' '  she  cried,  in  a  passion 
of  self -giving.    ' '  You  must  let  me  help !  ' ' 

The  day  following  that  night  of  sorrowful 
revelation,  marked  the  vernal  moment  when  the 
chill  conjecture  of  Spring  gives  place  to  the  shin- 
ing certainty  of  Summer.  A  warm  rain  had  fallen 
during  the  dark  hours  before  dawn,  and  the  first 
faint  beams  of  morning  shone  upon  a  world  mar- 
vellously transfigured:  gnarled  apple-boughs, 
where  only  the  day  before  crisp,  pinkish  buds  had 
shone  dimly  among  the  small  pale  leaves,  flung 
scented  garlands  of  lavish  bloom  to  the  wind,  and 
amid  the  fresh  green  of  the  young  grass  dark  vio- 
lets and  purple-pink  wild  geraniums  unfolded 
myriad  blossoms  to  the  light. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  young  life  Milly  Orne 
had  lain  long  awake  in  her  little  chamber  under 
the  roof.  How  could  she  have  been  so  blind — so 
selfish  all  these  years,  she  asked  herself.  How 
they  had  worked  and  sacrificed  for  her — Grand- 
mother toiling  late  into  the  night  at  her  loom,  that 
Milly  might  wear  a  new  dress  to  the  country 
dance;  Grandfather  carrying  milk  to  his  cus- 
tomers on  cold  mornings  in  winter  and  laughing 
at  Milly 's  offers  of  help.  "  No,  no,"  he  would 
say,  "  this  ain't  no  kind  o'  work  fer  a  little  gal 
like  you.  You  stay  home  with  yer  Gran 'ma  an' 
keep  warm  b'  th'  stove." 

Once,  she  remembered.  Grandfather  had  been 
stiff  with  rheumatism  for  a  week   and  Grand- 


104  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

mother  had  insisted  upon  taking  the  milk.  "  Me 
an'  Gran 'pa  don't  want  you  should  peddle  milk," 
the  old  woman  had  protested.  ''  We  ain't  a-goin' 
t'  allow  it,  neither.  You  stay  home  an'  wait  on 
yer  Gran 'pa." 

It  had  been  the  same  with  all  the  heavier  tasks 
about  the  house  and  garden.  Grandmother  never 
allowed  Milly  to  wash  the  clothes  of  a  Monday. 
She  might  pin  them  to  the  line  if  she  must  do 
something,  ''  But  the'  ain't  no  sense,"  said 
Grandmother,  briskly,  "  in  your  spilin'  your 
pretty  han's  when  mine's  all  wrinkled  an'  out  o' 
shape,  anyhow."  Likewise  and  for  similar  rea- 
sons, she  had  been  forbidden  to  milk,  to  scrub  the 
floors,  to  dig  the  vegetables. 

It  was  all  clear  to  Milly  now.  As  she  lay  wide- 
eyed  in  the  darkness,  listening  to  the  soft  patter 
of  the  rain  above  her  head,  she  beheld  herself, 
always  shielded,  indulged,  idolized  by  the  two  old 
people,  growing  strong  and  beautiful,  while  year 
by  year  their  bent  shoulders  stooped  lower  be- 
neath the  burden.  .  .  .  Then  her  quickened 
thoughts  hovered  about  Grandfather,  crouched 
over  the  fire,  his  distorted  old  hands  with  their 
blackened  and  broken  nails  shaking  a  little,  as  he 
described  the  disaster  wliich  had  befallen  the  dun 
cow.  ''  I  ain't  held  up  my  head  since  your  mother 
died,"  he  had  said,  and — '^  1  ought  to  ha'  sus- 
picioned  that  young  feller " 

Did  he  mean  her  father?  .    .    . 


A  NIGHT  OF  RAIN  105 

Once,  when  she  was  a  small  child,  Grandmother 
had  taken  her  to  the  churchyard,  where  in  a  dis- 
tant corner,  sheltered  from  unfriendly  winds  and 
prying  eyes  by  a  row  of  thrifty  young  pines,  was 
a  solitary  grave.  At  its  head  a  simple  white  stone 
bore  the  name  "  Milly,"  with  the  dates  of  birth 
and  death.  Milly  remembered  how  she  had  chased 
a  butterfly  in  the  sun,  while  Grandmother  cleared 
the  encroaching  lichens  from  the  stone  and  made 
the  narrow  mound  bright  with  pansies  fetched 
from  the  garden  at  home.  She  had  captured  the 
butterfly  at  last  with  a  shout  of  triumph,  bringing 
it  all  spoiled  and  broken  to  Grandmother.  .  .  . 
Never  had  she  forgotten  the  look  on  the  grief- 
stained  old  face.  "  That's  just  what  happened 
to  her,"  Grandmother  said,  in  a  voice  not  her 
own.  Then,  with  sudden  harshness: — '*  Go  away, 
child;  you've  got  his  look  in  your  eyes."   .    .    . 

All  this,  while  the  sound  of  the  rain  on  the  roof 
deepened  to  a  steady  roar.  Then,  somehow,  the 
churchyard  with  its  gleaming  stones,  and  the 
wind  in  the  pines  and  the  gravely  bright  faces  of 
the  pansies,  set  in  prim  rows  on  the  narrow 
mound,  became  confused;  Grandmother's  voice 
came  to  her  from  a  great  way  off — not  harsh  now, 
but  cadenced  with  patient  grief — "  You've  got 
his  look  in  your  eyes,  child — his  look  in  your 
eyes."   .    .    . 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Milly  awoke,  and 
already  the  bees  were   busy  among  the   apple- 


106  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

blossoms  under  her  window.  As  the  girl  hurriedly 
made  her  simple  toilet  she  heard  sounds  from  be- 
low; the  clash  of  stove-lids  and  the  click  of  cups 
and  saucers. 

''I'm  so  ashamed,  Gran 'ma!  "  was  her  greet- 
ing, as  she  surprised  the  old  woman  in  the  act  of 
cutting  thick  slices  from  a  brown  loaf.  "  Why 
didn't  you  call  me?  " 

"  'Cause  I'd  ruther  you'd  sleep,"  replied 
Grandmother,  defiantly.  ''  The'  ain't  no  call  fer 
you  't  be  up  at  five  in  the  mornin',  as  I  know  of." 

She  set  the  thick  slices  in  order  on  a  blue-edged 
plate. 

''  They've  took  the  cow  away  a 'ready,"  she 
added.  ''  Gran 'pa,  he  seen  t'  it  first  thing.  We'll 
git  a  good  bit  fer  the  hide  and  taller,  'n'  I  guess 
th'  ain't  no  call  fer  anybody  to  worry.  I  c'n  stan' 
it  'ithout  s'  much  milk  t'  look  after,  fur  's  I'm 
concerned." 

Milly  said  nothing,  but  after  she  had  cleared 
away  the  breakfast  things  and  made  everything 
tidy  about  the  little  house  she  pinned  a  hat  of 
blue  straw  over  her  blond  braids,  and  crossed  tlie 
room  to  where  her  Grandmother  already  sat  at 
the  loom,  busy  ''  tying  on." 

''  I'm — going.  Gran 'ma,"  she  said,  trying  hard 
to  keep  a  quiver  out  of  her  voice. 

The  old  woman  glanced  up  sharply  from  her 
task. 

"  Going!  "  she  echoed.  "  Going  where?    This 


A  NIGHT  OF  RAIN  107 

ain't  no  time  o'  day  t'  gad;  it's  too  early  fer  the 
mail.    'Sides,  Gran 'pa " 

''I'm  going,"  said  Milly,  firmly,  "  to  see  Mrs. 
Hill.  If  she  will  hire  me  at  thirty  dollars  a  month 
I  can " 

She  had  expected  sharp  expostulation,  even  de- 
nial ;  but  to  her  surprise  the  old  woman  burst  into 
a  loud  cackle  of  laughter. 

''  Set  down,"  she  ordered,  "an'  git  busy 
pickin'  out  all  the  blue  in  that  there  basket." 

"  But,  Gran 'mother,"  expostulated  the  girl, 
glancing  at  the  small  nickel  clock  which  shamed 
with  its  noisy  activities  the  silent,  dignified  old 
timepiece  in  the  corner.  "  It's  late.  I'm  afraid 
she'll  find  somebody  else " 

''Let  her,"  quoth  Mrs.  Orne.  "  You  set  down,, 
deary,  an'  le'  me  talk  t'  you  a  spell.  You  got 
money  in  the  bank,  an'  never  knowed  it  all  these 
years." 

"  I Money  in  the  bank?  " 

Milly  gazed  incredulously  at  the  old  face,  hard 
twisted  in  a  look  of  strangely  blended  pain  and 
triumph. 

"  Uh-huh,"  the  old  woman  nodded.  "  It's  been, 
there  since  b'fore  you  was  born,  in — in  your  name, 
too.  Me  an'  Gran 'pa  'd  never  touch  it.  But  it's 
yours,  honey.  You  don't  hev  t'  work  in  nobody's, 
kitchen." 

"  But — but  how  did  I  come  to  have  any 
money?  " 


108  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Milly  was  industriously  sorting  the  blue  rags 
from  the  mass  of  heterogeneous  material  in  the 
basket.  She  pulled  out  a  long  strip  of  figured  cot- 
ton stuif  and  began  to  wind  it  upon  the  ball  in  her 
lap. 

'^  Don't  put  in  that  striped  gingham!  "  snapped 
Mrs.  Orne.  "  That  goes  in  th'  other  basket;  don't 
you  see?  I  dunno  's  it  makes  any  differ 'nee  t' 
you  where  the  money  come  from,  s'  long  's  it's 
yourn. ' ' 

^'  Is  there  enough  for  Gran 'father  to  buy  an- 
other cow  with,  and — and  fix  the  roof?  " 

Mrs.  Orne  snipped  off  a  bit  of  warp  with  a  loud 
clash  of  her  big  shears. 

**  Redic'lous,"  she  exclaimed,  sharply.  "  'Tain't 
ourn  t'  use." 

*'  If  it's  mine "  began  Milly. 

''It's  yourn,  jus'  's  I  said,"  Mrs.  Orne  pro- 
nounced, in  a  hard  voice; ''  but  you  can't  spend  it 

the  way  you  said.    It — it's  fur .    .    .  Lord! 

I  wisht  you'd  go  out  an'  work  in  yer  posies.  The 
flowers-de-luce  is  all  in  blow  this  mornin'.  Run 
out  an'  see  'em,  honey.    I  got  t'  git  these  'ere 

breadths  out  th'  loom  b'  this  aft 'noon. G'  on; 

you  hender  me!  " 

Milly  had  put  her  arms  about  the  old  woman's 
neck  from  behind. 

''  I  won't  go  a  step,"  she  said,  firmly, 
*'  till  you  tell  me.  How  much  money  have  I 
got?  " 


A  NIGHT  OF  KAIN  109 

*'  I  knew  you'd  pester  the  life  out  o'  me," 
scolded  her  grandmother.  "I  toP  Gran 'pa  so. 
But  he  was  set.  ^  Ef  she's  bound  on  goin'  out  t' 
work,'  he  sez " 

"You  told  Gran 'father?  " 

Mrs.  Orne  nodded.  Then  she  turned  suddenly 
and  faced  the  girl. 

"  '  We  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  them  Hill 
folks,"  she  said,  shrilly.  "  An'  why  in  creation 
should  you  go  off  an'  leave  me  and  Gran 'pa,  fer  a 
fool  notion  ?  I  '11  give  Mis '  Pettibone  a  piece  o '  my 
mind  nex'  time  I  see  her.  She  ain't  got  no  call 
t' " 

''  I  asked  her,"  interrupted  Milly.  ^'  I  must 
do  something  to  help.  Can't  you  see.  Gran 'ma, 
I — I — can't  live  here  and  do  nothing.  You  say  I 
have  money.    If  you " 

''  No — no!  "  cried  Mrs.  Orne.  She  threw  her 
apron  over  her  head  with  the  tragic  gesture  of  the 
countryside.  Milly  listened  to  her  sobbing  in 
perplexed  silence. 

Presently  Mrs,  Orne  lowered  the  apron  from 
her  face,  and  it  was  seen  that  within  its  familiar 
sanctum  she  had  regained  something  of  her  lost 
composure. 

''  Losin'  th'  cow  an'  all  kind  o'  upset  me,"  she 
muttered.  Then,  with  sudden  sharpness,  ''  We 
don't  want  you  sh'd  use  that  money  for  us.  We'd 
a-gin  it  back  long  ago,  if  we'd  knowed  where  it 
come  f'om.  .   .   .  But  it  ain't  as  if  you  didn't 


110  THE  HEART  OF  PHH^URA 

have  nothin'.  An'  I  guess,  when  it  comes  t'  that, 
yon've  got  the  right " 

'*  Did — my  father  give  me  the  money!  "  asked 
■Milly  in  a  clear,  distinct  voice. 

Her  blue  eyes,  narrowed  slightly,  gazed  straight 
at  her  grandmother. 

*'  I  think  I'm  old  enough  to  know,"  she  added, 
slowly. 

Mrs.  Orne  stared  at  the  girl,  her  mouth  drop- 
ping open  a  little. 

"  I  never  thought  you  favoured  him,"  she 
said,  under  her  breath, — ''  you're  like  our  Milly. 
But — the'  's  times  when  you  put  me  in  mind " 

She  stopped  suddenly. 

''I'm  a-goin'  t'  tell  you,"  she  went  on,  after  a 
lengthening  pause.  "  It  was  your  father.  He 
sent  two  hundred  dollars  t' — t'  Milly,  with  a  let- 
ter. 'N'  after  she  died,  it — 'course  'twas  yourn 
by  rights.  Me  'n'  Gran 'pa  wouldn't  a-touched  a 
penny  of  it — not  ef  we  was  starvin'.  It's  been  in 
the  bank  ever  since,  drawin' interest.   .    .    ." 

Milly 's  fair  young  face  had  grown  very  pale. 
She  walked  toward  the  door,  her  head  with  its 
mass  of  blond  braids,  topped  by  the  small  blue 
hat,  thrown  slightly  back. 

"I'm  going,  now,"  she  said,  gently.  "  But  I'll 
be  home  before  dark." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  IN  THE  WORLD 

The  road  leading  to  the  Eggleston  farm  might — 
for  the  sheer  wild  loveliness  of  it — have  conducted 
one  straight  to  Paradise.  But  Milly,  walking 
swiftly  between  myriads  of  fluttering  leaves  and 
blossoms,  jewelled  thick  with  the  lavish  splen- 
dours of  rain  and  sun,  paid  scant  heed  to  its 
beauty.  She  was  painfully  conscious  of  old  Mrs. 
Orne,  sitting  alone  before  the  loom;  its  steady 
thump-thumping  marking  the  heavy  rhythm  of  her 
thoughts.  And  the  money — of  which  she  had 
never  been  told,  and  which  had  been  drawing  in- 
terest all  these  years. — Wliy  should  the  mere 
memory  of  it  kindle  so  strange  a  fire  in  those  mild 
eyes?  Athwart  the  crystal  pool  of  Milly 's  mind 
an  ominous  shadow  had  fallen.  But  she  had  not 
sufficient  knowledge  of  the  world,  of  either  books 
or  men,  to  guess  the  truth.  Something  strange 
had  befallen  her  father  and  mother — this  much 
was  clear.  Had  he  deserted  her  in  her  hour  of 
need,  sending  the  money  in  lieu  of  his  presence? 
Such  cruelty  was  unthinkable.  Yet  her  grand- 
mother's words  had  clearly  implied  it.  And  after- 
ward— what  could  have  become  of  him  ?  She  had 
always  supposed  herself  orphaned  of  both  father 

111 


112  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

and  mother.  And  yet — now  that  she  considered 
the  matter — Grandmother  had  never  said  so.  The 
thought  of  a  father,  cold  and  unloving,  perhaps 
not  even  aware  of  her  existence,  dimmed  the  warm 
rose  of  her  cheek,  and  her  blue  eyes — lifted  sud- 
denly at  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  road 
behind  her — were  full  of  vague  trouble. 

The  horse,  a  bright  bay,  sidled  by  with  a  wild 
glance  at  the  girl's  slim  blue  figure,  in  its  little 
fluttering  cape.  His  rider  spoke  to  him  sharply, 
touching  spurred  heels  to  the  animal's  glossy 
flank.  They  had  passed  in  an  instant — the  man 
hastily  touching  his  cap  with  a  muttered  word  of 
apology.  Milly  watched  the  two  figures — man  and 
horse  seeming  like  one — as  they  topped  the  rise 
just  ahead.  She  did  not  remember  to  have  seen 
either  before.  In  the  flashing  moment  of  their  en- 
counter she  had  noticed  his  keen,  dark  eyes  and 
his  riding  clothes,  of  a  fashion  unfamiliar  to  the 
country  roads  about  Innisfield.  The  single  look 
he  had  cast  in  her  direction  appeared  to  question 
her  presence  on  the  narrow  road  leading  to  the 
Eggleston  farm. 

Yet,  such  are  the  intricacies  of  the  human  heart, 
Milly  Orne  ceased  to  think  further  of  her  myste- 
rious father,  who  had  somehow  managed  to  earn 
Grandmother's  undying  hatred,  and  of  the  money, 
which  nobody  wanted,  drawing  interest  in  the 
Innisfield  Savings  Bank,  It  should  continue  to 
draw   interest,   for    all    of  her,    thought   Milly, 


A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  113 

with  a  spirited  toss  of  her  pretty  head.  If 
none  of  it  could  be  spent  to  bring  comfort 
to  the  two  old  people,  it  was  useless  to  her. 
She  was  strong  and  could  earn  money,  which 
she  would  spend  as  she  liked.  Once  more 
Milly  beheld  in  imagination  the  rows  upon  rows 
of  yellow  shingles,  shining  in  the  sun;  and  this 
time  she  added  a  dun  cow  to  her  picture — a  young 
and  beautiful  dun  cow,  peacefully  chewing  the 
safe  cud  of  contentment  in  Grandfather's  pas- 
ture. 

There  were  fresh  hoof-prints  in  the  moist  gravel 
of  the  drive  winding  between  the  stately  gate- 
posts of  the  old  Eggleston  place.  As  Milly 
rounded  a  curve  in  the  road  densely  masked  with 
flowering  shrubs  she  beheld  the  bay  horse,  stand- 
ing meekly  enough  with  trailing  bridle  before  the 
side  entrance  of  the  house.  The  young  man  who 
had  ridden  him  was  talking  with  a  woman  under 
the  shelter  of  the  portico.  Neither  of  them  ap- 
peared to  notice  Milly 's  timid  approach.  She 
paused  and  drew  back  a  little  at  sight  of  the  man's 
passionate  gesture  of  denial.  He  was  evidently 
angry  at  something  the  woman  was  saying  in  an 
indistinguishable  voice. 

**  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort!  "  Milly  heard  him 
say  loudly.  * '  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  will !  You  push 
a  fellow  too  hard,  Mother." 

Then  both  turned,  suddenly  conscious  of  the 
girl's  shrinking  presence. 


114  THE  HEART  OF  PHH^URA 

**  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  the  woman  said, 
sharply. 

The  young  man  had  already  flung  himself  upon 
the  horse  and  ridden  violently  away.  Everything 
about  him  seemed  violent,  Milly  thought.  The 
woman  repeated  her  question  in  a  more  conven- 
tional tone. 

''What  do  you  wish?  " 

Her  cold,  imperturbable  eyes  were  busy  with 
the  girl 's  face  and  figure. 

"  I  came — to  see  Mrs.  Hill,"  Milly  replied, 
timidly.  ''  Mrs.  Pettibone — I  have  a  note  from 
her." 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Hill,"  the  woman  said,  and  ex- 
tended her  hand  for  the  triangular  message  bear- 
ing her  name. 

' '  Have  you  read  this  ?  ' '  she  demanded,  raising 
her  eyes  from  its  swift  perusal. 

'^  Read  it?  "  echoed  Milly,  her  colour  rising. 
^'  No'm;  certainly  not." 

''  It  seems  from  this  you  are  not  an  ordinary 
servant,"  commented  Mrs.  Hill,  sweeping  the 
girl's  slim  figure  with  an  appraising  stare.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  you'll  do.    I  should  prefer  an 

elderly  woman — with  experience.    Still. Can 

you  cook?  " 

*'  I've  never  cooked  except  at  home,"  hesitated 
Milly,  very  pink  and  trembling  under  the  scrutiny 
of  the  woman's  eyes;  "  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  say 
I  can.     I  know  how  to  prepare  vegetables,  and 


A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  115 

cook  them ;  and — and  meat.  I  can  make  pies,  too ; 
— Gran 'father  likes  my  pies  better  than  Gran'- 
mother  's.  I — I  am  strong,  and — I  can  make  plain 
cake,  molasses  cake  and " 

*'  You  look  healthy,"  the  woman  conceded, 
harshly. 

She  sighed  heavily,  yet  with  a  touch  of  impa- 
tience. 

**  If  you'd  try  me — just  to-day,"  the  girl  went 
on,  timidly.    "  I  should  like  to  go  home  nights." 

*'  Where  do  you  live?  " 

Milly  pointed  vaguely. 

"  It's  not  far,"  she  said,  *'  down  the  road 
a  piece." 

''  In  the  village?  " 

'  *  No  'm ;  Gran  'father 's  house  is  quite  a  ways 
this  side  of  the  village." 

Mrs.  Hill  considered  the  girl's  reply  in  a  silence 
which  appeared  to  connect  itself  with  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone  's  modest  communication.  Milly  watched  the 
strong  white  fingers  tear  the  paper  into  strips, 
then  twice  across,  in  a  bewilderment  which  pres- 
ently deepened  into  resentment.  Grandmother 
(she  thought)  would  not  like  her  to  stand  here 
begging  for  work,  when,  after  all,  there  was 
money,  which  belonged  to  her  by  right.   .    .    . 

*'  I  think  I'll  try  you,"  Mrs.  Hill  announced, 
looking  up  suddenly  from  her  work  of  demolition. 

She  allowed  the  bits  of  paper  to  escape  negli- 
gently from  her  plump  white  hands. 


116  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

'*  You  may  come  in — I  see  you're  dressed  for 
work. ' ' 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Milly  Orne,  meekly. 

''  I've  never  been  without  a  servant  before," 
•Mrs.  Hill  observed,  as  she  piloted  Milly  into  a 
large  disorderly  kitchen. 

She  turned  and  faced  the  girl  before  a  table 
covered  with  soiled  dishes. 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Pettibone  has  already  told  you 
of  us,"  she  said,  interrogatively. 

Her  eyes  demanded  instant  reply. 

Milly  shook  her  head. 

*'  She  said  you  were — that  you  had  only  lived 
here  a  little  while." 

"  We  came  here  for  my  daughter's — for  Mrs. 
Walter  Hill's  health,"  the  woman  said,  slowly. 
*' — Kindly  pay  attention  to  what  I  tell  you. — I 
shall  not  repeat  it — nor  must  you.  Do  you  under- 
stand f  You  are  not  to  talk  to  anyone  of  what  you 
see  or  hear  in  my  house,  while  you  are  employed 
here." 

She  paused,  her  eyes  under  gathered  brows  gaz- 
ing opaquely  at  the  girl. 

''  Of  course  I  shouldn't  think  of "  began 

Milly,  proudly. 

Mrs.  Hill  cut  her  short  with  an  impatient  ges- 
ture. 

'^  Not  that  there  is  anything  in  the  least  pe- 
culiar, or  even  interesting  in  our  living  here.  My 
daughter-in-law,  soon  after  her  marriage  to  my 


A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  117 

son,  fell  into  a  nervous,  almost  hysterical  condi- 
tion. Our  physician  advised  country  air  and  a 
complete  change  of  climate  and  environment. 
Through  my  agent  I  learned  of  this  place,  and 
took  it  for  a  year.  There  are  only  the  three  of 
us — my  son,  his  wife  and  myself.  Now  I  think 
you  know  all  that  is  necessary  to  know." 

The  flow  of  words,  spoken  in  a  low,  hurried 
voice,  suddenly  ceased.  But  the  woman  still 
stood,  one  plump  hand  resting  on  the  table,  her 
eyes  riveted  upon  the  girl's  listening  face. 

''  Perhaps,"  she  resumed,  suddenly,  "  I  ought 
to  reassure  you  on  one  point :  my  son's  wife,  while 
exceedingly  nervous  and  unstrung,  is  perfectly  ra- 
tional except  on  one  or  two  points.  She  had  a — 
a  strange  fancy  concerning  her  husband,  which — 
our  physician  assures  us — will  disappear  in  due 
time.  Her  mental  condition,  in  short,  is  not 
wholly  unnatural  in  view  of  the  facts  in  the  case. 
I  am  telling  you  this,  so  that  in  case  Sylvia — Mrs. 

Hill — should   say   anything  to   you If   she 

should  even  attempt  to  talk  to  you,  kindly  report 
the  circumstance  at  once  to  me.  Your  failure  to 
do  so  might  involve  us  all  in  great  trouble.  Do 
you  understand?  " 

Milly  was  looking  down,  feeling  very  hot  and 
uncomfortable. 

"  I — should  not  talk  to  anyone,"  she  said, 
coldly.  *'  I  wish  to  earn  money;  that  is  why  I 
came.    I  should  do  my  work." 


118  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

**  Oh,  as  to  wages,"  Mrs.  Hill  observed,  after  a 
slight  pause.  "  You  would  hardly  expect  more 
than  twenty  dollars'?  " 

Milly  gazed  at  the  woman  with  slightly  nar- 
rowed eyes. 

''  Mrs.  Pettibone  told  me  you  would  pay 
thirty,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"I  mentioned  thirty  dollars  in  my  note  to  Mrs. 
Pettibone, ' '  conceded  Mrs.  Hill.  ' '  An  experienced 
servant  would  be  worth  that  much.  You  are 
merely  an  untrained  girl.  It  is  not  at  all  likely 
you  can  cook  anything  we  could  eat,  to  say  nothing 
of  waiting  on  table,  or  fine  laundry  work.  I  shall 
have  to  show  you  everything. ' ' 

These  were  incontrovertible  facts.  Milly  turned 
them  over  slowly  in  her  mind.  Then  she  put  for- 
ward a  fact  quite  as  incontrovertible. 

''  There  are  no  experienced  servants  in  Innis- 
field,"  she  asserted.  ''  You  will  not  find  any. 
Nearly  everyone  is  busy  at  home,  or  in  the 
mills." 

She  looked  toward  the  door  which  stood  open, 
revealing  a  stretch  of  unshorn  grass  and  a  weedy 
flower-border  beyond.  She  was  thinking  she 
would  go  home,  and  beg  Grandmother  to  let  her 
work  in  the  mills.  Perhaps,  now  that  the  cow  was 
dead,  Grandmother  would  give  her  consent. 

**  Well;  I  will  give  you  thirty  dollars,"  Mrs. 
Hill  said,  sharply.  ''I'm  obliged  to  have  someone, 
at  once.    Take  off  your  hat  and  go  to  work.    This 


A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  119 

kitchen  must  be  put  to  rights,  first.  We  have 
luncheon  at  one,  and  dinner " 

She  broke  off  suddenly  at  sound  of  an  open- 
ing door.  Milly  saw  her  face  change  queerly. 
When  she  spoke  again,  her  voice  was  soft  and 
purring. 

*'  Sylvia,  my  dear;  this  is  our  new  maid. — By 
the  way,  what  is  your  name?  Oh,  Milly — Milly 
Orne.  That  is  a  very  pretty  name  and  odd,  for  a 
maid.  Milly,  this  is  Mrs.  Walter  Hill,  my  son's 
wife.  I  believe  you  saw  Mr.  Hill ;  he  was  talking 
with  me  when  you  came.  Really,  your  sudden  ap- 
pearance quite  startled  me.  I  wasn't  expecting 
such  good  fortune." 

Milly  turned  and  saw  a  tall  girl  standing  in  the 
door-way,  staring  at  her  with  a  mixture  of  curios- 
ity and  sullen  defiance  in  her  dark  face.  Her  eyes 
were  slightly  swollen  and  discoloured,  as  if  with 
recent  tears,  and  her  mouth  drooped  dispiritedly 
at  the  corners.  Mrs.  Hill  walked  resolutely 
toward  the  door  and  attempted  to  pass  her  arm 
about  the  girl's  waist. 

''  Come,  Sylvia,  my  dear,"  she  said,  coaxingly, 
''  suppose  we  leave  Milly  to  her  work  and  go  for 
a  ramble  in  the  woods.    It  will  do  you  good," 

The  girl 's  mutinous  face  quivered  as  she  threw 
off  the  caressing  hand. 

^'  Don't,  Mother!  "  she  exclaimed,  irritably; 
*'  you  know  I  can't  bear  it." 

But  she  turned  to  follow  with  seeming  docility. 


120  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Milly  heard  the  door  close  behind  the  two  women 
and  the  sound  of  their  retreating  steps  in  the  un- 
carpeted  passage. 

Left  quite  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  untidy 
kitchen,  Milly  looked  around  for  a  nail  on  which 
to  hang  her  hat ;  then  she  invested  her  slim  person 
in  the  clean  checkered  apron  she  had  brought  with 
her.  The  fire  had  gone  out  in  the  cook-stove  and 
the  water  in  the  old-fashioned  reservoir  was  cold, 
there  was  neither  wood  nor  kindling  to  be  found 
in  the  box  behind  the  stove.  After  a  moment  of 
indecision,  Milly  opened  one  of  several  doors  in 
search  of  the  woodshed.  There  were  steps  de- 
scending to  a  brick-floored  room,  its  one  cob- 
webbed  window  opening  upon  the  green  gloom  of 
a  grassy  bank  overgrown  with  rampant  lilac 
shoots.  *'  The  milkroom,"  decided  Milly,  looking 
about  the  rows  of  dusty  shelves,  and  the  pails  and 
pans,  once  shining  silver-bright,  but  now  dim  with 
the  rust  of  long  disuse.  There  was  the  sound  of 
running  water  in  the  cold  greenish  gloom,  where 
a  sparkling  spring  gushed  from  a  wooden  pipe, 
falling  with  a  musical  drip  and  gurgle  into  a  rude 
trough,  thence  disappearing  through  a  hole  in  the 
floor.  A  second  door,  half-open,  disclosed  to 
Milly 's  inquiring  gaze  a  pantry  of  ample  propor- 
tions, well-stocked  with  ancient  crockery  and  uten- 
sils. The  shelf  before  the  open  window  bore  a 
heterogeneous  collection  of  grocer's  supplies;  a 
pot  of  butter,  melting  in  the  sun,  a  tumbler  of  jam 


A  LITTLE  JOUENEY  121 

besieged  by  darting  flies;  a  baker's  loaf,  cut 
crookedly  across;  sugar,  spilled  from  a  broken 
bag  and  already  under  convoy  of  a  procession  of 
industrious  ants;  a  tin  pail  half-filled  with  milk, 
in  which  divers  of  the  besieging  force  had  met 
ignominious  defeat.  .  .  .  She  found  the  wood- 
shed at  last,  and  the  sight  of  its  ordered  rows  of 
hickory  sticks  and  the  plentiful  supply  of 
"  chips,"  bespeaking  former  days  of  thrift  and 
industry,  somehow  restored  her  drooping  spirits. 
A  competent  fire  soon  crackled  in  the  rusty  stove ; 
then  Milly  attacked  the  piled-up  dishes  on  the 
table,  wondering  a  little  how  three  people  could 
possibly  have  employed  so  many  plates,  cups,  and 
utensils  in  the  course  of  a  single  breakfast.  There 
were  other  things  over  which  to  wonder :  a  quan- 
tity of  silver  spoons  and  forks,  thrown  negligently 
into  an  iron  saucepan  in  which  milk  had  been 
burned;  a  broken  plate  of  delicate  porcelain  con- 
taining a  fragment  of  yellow  soap;  a  silent  clock 
on  the  mantel  pointing  to  the  hour  of  six.  Milly 
searched  for  and  found  the  key.  She  did  not  know 
the  hour  but  guessed  it  to  be  ten. 

The  clock  struck  busily,  its  harsh,  rasping  voice 
seeming  to  rebuke  the  desolating  disorder  of  the 
old  kitchen.  Then  Milly  bethought  her  once  more 
of  the  butter  melting  in  the  sun.  Obviously  the 
milkroom,  with  its  penetrating  coolness,  was  the 
place  for  perishable  foods.  What  might  a  trained 
servant    do,   under   existing   circumstances,    she 


122  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

wondered — one  really  worth  the  thirty  dollars  a 
month  she  had  so  boldly  exacted?  Still  pondering 
this  question  she  plunged  the  pot  of  butter  in  the 
cool  water  of  the  spring ;  undertook  salvage  work 
on  the  milk  pail  and  sugar  bag ;  then  fell  to  wash- 
ing the  dishes,  tables,  shelves — everything  in 
sight.  A  step  on  the  newly  cleansed  floor  caused 
her  to  look  up  from  a  rueful  contemplation  of  a 
drawer  in  the  kitchen  cupboard,  crammed  to 
bursting  with  soiled  table-linen. 

The  tall  young  man  whom  she  had  last  seen  rid- 
ing violently  away  on  his  bay  horse  stood  near  the 
door  looking  about  him  with  an  air  of  astonish- 
ment. He  still  wore  his  riding  clothes,  spattered 
with  the  mud  of  fast  and  furious  travel.  He 
glanced  at  Milly  with  a  certain  lighting  of  his 
somber  young  face  remotely  suggesting  a  smile. 

"  Are  you  here  to  stay?  '*  he  propounded. 

* '  I  don 't  know, ' '  Milly  replied.  "  If  I  suit,  per- 
haps  " 

''  Suit?    You  mean " 


"I'm  not  an  experienced " 

She  hesitated,  with  a  slight  pucker  of  her  white 
forehead. 

"  I've  never  worked  out  before." 

' '  You  don 't  look  in  the  least  like  a  servant, ' '  he 
said,  with  a  brusqueness  which  suggested  his 
mother.  "  Rummy  old  hole — this  kitchen.  I've 
done  my  best ;  but  it 's  not  exactly  in  my  line.  I'm 
not — er — experienced,  either." 


A  LITTLE  JOUENEY  123 

Milly  was  silent,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  mass  of 
soiled  linen  she  was  sorting.  He  did  not  go  away, 
however,  but  reached  for  a  glass  on  the  table. 

' '  I  came  in  for  a  drink  of  that  bully  water, ' '  he 
stated.    "  Best  thing  about  the  place." 

He  came  back  presently,  whistling  under  his 
breath. 

^'  Clever  idea  of  yours  to  put  the  butter  and 
milk  in  the  water,"  he  commented.  "  There 
seems  to  be  no  iceman  about,  and  no  refrigerator. 
We  didn't  happen  to  think  of  your  little  scheme." 

Still  Milly  did  not  reply.  Mrs.  Hill,  she  could 
not  help  reflecting,  appeared  to  have  bestowed 
scant  attention  upon  her  kitchen  and  everything 
connected  with  it. 

The  singular  young  man  stared  at  Her  with 
gathered  brows. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  tackled  these  dishes 
yesterday,  or  the  day  before,"  he  broke  out,  after 
a  lengthening  pause.  "  Mother — er — you  see 
she's — busy,  most  of  the  time,  and  Sylvia — well; 
none  of  us  were  exactly  prepared  for  the  life  here. 
It  appears  to  keep  one  comfortably  busy  just  to 
exist,  doesn't  it? — To  exist  and — er — clear  away 
the  debris.    Where  is  Mother,  anyway!  " 

''  I  don't  know,"  said  Milly. 

She  walked  across  to  the  stove  and  replenished 
the  fire.    Then  she  looked  at  the  clock. 

"  If  you  would  kindly  tell  me  the  time.  I  set 
the  clock  by  guess." 


124  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Pie  assisted  the  old  clock  to  a  more  exact  per- 
formance of  its  duties  with  an  almost  eager  air  of 
friendliness. 

^'  Couldn't  we  have  something  to  eat  pretty 
soon?  "  he  asked,  over  his  shoulder. 

Milly  stole  a  bewildered  glance  at  him. 

"  Mrs.  Hill  said  dinner — no,  luncheon,'* — ^^she 
hesitated  over  the  seldom-used  word — ''  was  to  be 
at  one.    But  she  didn't  tell  me " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  ^'  luncheon  hath  a  pleasant 
sound.  Suppose  I  help  you  a  bit.  Mother  ought 
to  be  doing  it ;  but  I  know  where  some  of  the 
stuff  is.    What  can  you  cook?  " 

^'  Baked  potatoes,"  Milly  suggested,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Baked  potatoes — excellent!  What  else?  Can 
you  toss  up  a  good  omelet?  " 

^ '  You  mean — eggs  ?  ' ' 

'^  Of  course.  I  attempted  it  one  daj;  it  didn't 
sound  hard  in  the  cook-book — there's  a  cook-book, 

you  know — but  when  it  came  to  the  tossing 

Did  you  ever  try  it?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

''  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  even,"  she  said. 
*'  But  I  can  cook  eggs  different  ways." 

''  Good!  Eggs  different  ways  it  shall  be. 
There's  bread — if  that's  what  you  call  the  curious 
stuff  the  grocer  brings." 

' '  Do  you  eat — out  here  ?  ' '  asked  Milly,  timidly. 
**  I  might  set  the  table." 


A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  125 

"  It's  the  most  cheerful  spot  in  the  house — now 
you're  in  it,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  '*  But 
so  far  we've  observed  the  rules  of  the  game  to 
the  extent  of  eating  in  the  dining-room." 

He  flung  open  a  door  and  glanced  in,  with  an 
impatient  exclamation. 

' '  I  see  Mother  left  it  to  you ;  and  you — just  look 
here!  " 

Milly  beheld  a  large  sparsely  furnished  room 
with  open  mndows.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor 
stood  a  disordered  table,  covered  with  the  remains 
of  a  meal  eaten  several  hours  before. 

"  I — I  didn't  know,"  she  said,  with  desperate 
courage.  "  Mrs.  Hill  said  I  wasn't  trained. 
Well,  I'm  not.  I  didn't  think  about  a  dining- 
room." 

"  Mother's  fault,  if  she  didn't  show  you,"  was 
his  brusque  comment.  ''  Never  mind, — you  didn't 
tell  me  your  name?  " 

His  handsome,  boyish  eyes  looked  straight  into 
hers. 

Milly  shook  her  head. 

''I'm  afraid  I  won't  do,  Mr.  Hill.  You're  very 
kind;  but " 

''I'm  not  kind.  I  want  you  to  stay.  Come,  I'll 
help  you  hustle  these  things  to  the  kitchen.  It 
won't  take  a  minute." 

She  obeyed  him  in  perplexed  silence.  Where 
could  the  mistress  of  this  disjointed  household  be? 
And  the  husband  of  the  handsome,  sullen-browed 


126  THE  HEAKT  OF  PHILUEA 

girl — why  should  he  concern  himself  with  neg- 
lected breakfast  things  and  the  proper  way  to 
cook  eggs  ?  She  resented  his  half-defiant  manner, 
his  boyish  eyes,  and  the  jingling  spurs  upon  his 
heels.  Nevertheless  she  prepared  the  potatoes  he 
brought  her  from  some  unexplored  corner;  laid 
the  dismantled  table  with  fresh  linen  and  china 
under  his  direction,  and  was  in  the  act  of  setting 
a  pan  of  hastily  compounded  biscuit  in  the  oven, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Hill  glided 
smoothly  in. 

''  Did  you  think  I  had  quite  forgotten  you?  " 
was  her  initial  question. 

Her  dull  eyes  glanced  frowningly  from  the 
girl's  flushed  face  to  that  of  her  son,  who  stood 
surveying  his  mother  with  a  deepening  of  his 
defiant  air. 

"  Hard  at  it,  as  usual.  Mother,"  he  said. 
*'  Somebody  had  to  help,  you  know." 

"  I  think  Sylvia  would  like  to  see  you,  Walter," 
she  replied,  with  a  significant  lifting  of  her  brows. 

Mrs.  Hill  stood  for  some  moments  looking 
blankly  about  the  kitchen.  She  did  not  appear  to 
notice  what  had  been  accomplished. 

"  I  had  intended  to  return  sooner,"  she  said 
stiffly.  '^  You — found  what  was  needed?  Or  did 
"Walter— Mr.  Hill " 

Milly  opened  her  lips  to  reply.  But  the  woman 
went  on,  a  sudden,  almost  apologetic  smile  over- 
spreading her  features. 


A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  127 

"  Of  course  you've  noticed  that  every tMng  is 
out  of  order  in  the  house.  I  thought  at  first  we 
should  be  able  to  live  quite  simply,  without  a 
servant.  But  there  is  really  so  much  one  does  not 
think  of;  and  being  unaccustomed " 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Milly,  with  down-dropped  eyes. 
**  Shall  I  scramble  the  eggs?  " 

"  The  eggs — oh,  yes.  Mrs.  Hill  is  fond  of 
omelet.    I  think  there  are  some  in  a  bag,  or " 

Milly  began  breaking  eggs  into  a  bowl.  She  set 
a  saucepan  over  the  fire  and  put  a  lump  of  butter 
in  it. 

Mrs.  Hill  watched  her  movements  specula- 
tively. 

''  You  appear  to  know  what  to  do,"  she  mur- 
mured.   ^'  But  .    .    . " 

The  rasping  voice  of  the  clock  told  the  hour  of 
one. 

* '  I  am  sorry  to  be  late, ' '  said  Milly,  in  a  small, 
meek  voice. 

'' That  is  no  matter.    But  .    .    .  " 

Milly  tested  the  potatoes  with  a  practised  thumb 
and  finger,  and  turned  the  pan  of  biscuit.  They 
had  puffed  to  a  fabulous  lightness  and  were  begin- 
ning to  take  on  a  tempting  golden  brown.  She 
was  thinking  determinedly  of  the  thirty  dollars. 
It  helped  to  steady  her  under  the  gaze  of  those 
singular  eyes.  She  felt  vaguely  that  Mrs.  Hill 
was  displeasd. 

*'  The   kitchen   floor,"    she   ventured,   timidly, 


/ 


128  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

* '  will  look  better  after  another  cleaning.  So  will 
the  tables." 

The  eggs  in  the  sancepan  required  instant  at- 
tention. Milly  began  lifting  spoonfuls  of  the 
creamy  mixture  to  the  top. 

Into  Mrs.  Hill's  opaque  gaze  had  crept  a  sud- 
den gleam  of  appetite.  She  appeared  to  abandon 
for  the  moment  the  train  of  thought  she  had  been 
pursuing. 

'*  I  must  have  some  coffee,"  she  said,  abruptly. 
*'  Serve  luncheon  at  once;  then  make  some." 


CHAPTER  XII 

MILLSTONES  AND  OPPORTUNITIES 

Despite  the  minister's  perfectly  just  remark  con- 
cerning millstones  of  fear  as  related  to  the  necks 
of  other  and  innocent  persons,  Mrs.  Pettibone  con- 
tinued to  indulge  small,  fluttering  anxieties  re- 
garding Milly  Orne,  whom  she  had  undoubtedly 
helped  to  precipitate  into  a  new  and  untried  way 
of  life.  That  Milly  had  actually  gone  to  work  for 
the  Hills  she  had  heard  from  that  well-nigh 
omniscient  person,  Mrs.  Buckthorn.  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn, as  was  entirely  natural  for  a  person 
athirst  for  general  information,  had  learned  of 
the  circumstance  from  the  grocery-man  in  the  vil- 
lage, who  had  actually  seen  Milly  at  work  in  Mrs. 
Hill's  kitchen. 

Mr.  Obed  Salter,  in  the  act  of  wrapping  up  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  mixed  tea  and  a  tin  can  of 
baking-powder,  just  purchased  by  the  excellent 
matron,  averred  that  he  was  "  some  s 'prised 
to  see  the  girl,  down  on  her  ban's  an'  knees 
scrubbin'  up  the  floor."  He  didn't  suppose  the 
Ornes  was  that  bad  off, — though  they  hadn't 
bought  no  bill  of  groceries  to  speak  of  for  a  spell 
back.  Mr.  Salter's  position  enabled  him  to  keep, 
as  it  were,  a  sort  of  commercial  barometer,  which 

129 


130  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

apprised  him  (and  other  persons  in  his  confi- 
dence) very  exactly  of  the  varying  rises  and  falls 
in  the  finances  of  his  customers.  If  the  wife  of  the 
local  undertaker,  for  example,  bought  lavishly  and 
paid  promptly  for  provisions  of  the  better  sort 
kept  in  stock  by  Mr.  Salter,  that  astute  gentleman 
"  guessed  the'  was  consid'able  sickness  an'  death 
'round."  So,  likewise,  items  occupying  several 
debit  pages  of  his  ledger  devoted  to  the  household 
consumption  of  Tifson,  the  jeweller,  indicated  the 
fact  that  ''  folks  wa'n't  buyin'  nothin'  the'  didn't 
hev  to  hev  these  days." 

**  Yes'm,"  said  Mr.  Salter,  addressing  himself 
to  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  with  philosophical  seriousness, 
''  this  'ere  's  a  queer  world,  any  way  you  c'n 
look  at  it.  Settin'  right  here  in  my  store,  I  c'n 
tell  which  way  the  cat  's  goin'  t'  jump  nine  times 
out  o '  ten.    But  the  tenth  time  's  got  me  guessin '. ' ' 

He  smiled  darkly  into  his  change-drawer. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  dropped,  two  nickels  and  a 
penny  into  her  purse. 

*'  Do  you  go  out  there  often!  "  she  propounded, 
intelligently  linking  Mr.  Salter's  metaphor  with 
an  earlier  statement. 

*'  You  mean  t'  th'  old  Eggleston  place!  Well; 
I  git  out  there  'bout  three  times  a  week  reg'lar. 
'  We  don't  d 'liver  goods,  es  a  rule,'  I  sez  to  Mis' 
Hill,  '  an'  we  don't  run  no  bills.'  '  Es  t'  that,' 
she  sez,  *  I  don't  mind.  I'll  pay  when  you  bring 
the  stuff.'    They  got  a  horse,  an'  the'  seems  t'  be 


MILLSTONES  AND  OPPORTUNITIES    131 

a  young  feller  hangin'  round  there  with  nothin' 
to  do. — No!  They  ain't  doin'  nothin'  with  th' 
farm;  ain't  even  planted  a  garden-patch.  Can't 
make  'em  out  exactly.  Seem  t'  hev  money 
a-plenty.  I  fetch  'em  butcher's  meat,  days  the 
cart  ain't  due.  But  she's  hard  t'  suit,  Mis'  Hill 
is — wants  things  I  never  heard  of  b'fore; 
an-chovies  'n'  pap-riky  'n'  I-talian  oil  in  tins,  'n' 
I  dunno  what  all.  '  Mis'  Hill,'  I  sez,  '  the'  ain't 
no  call  for  them  goods  in  this  'ere  town ;  but  if  you 
want  'em,'  I  sez,  '  'n'  c'n  pay  for  'em,  1  guess  I 
e'n  git  'em  for  you.  Plain,  honest  vittles,'  I  sez, 
'  is  good  enough  for  the  run  o'  my  customers.'  " 

^'  What  they  here  for,  anyhow?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Buckthorn,  with  a  comprehensive  sniff  of  disap- 
proval, but  an  eye  intent  on  the  crux  of  the  matter. 

The  strange  articles  of  food,  particularised  by 
Mr.  Salter,  inspired  in  her  an  active  suspicion  em- 
bracing the  persons  who  exhibited  such  unnatural 
appetites  and  desires.  '^  Fleshly  lusts,"  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  characterised  them,  rolling  the  Pauline 
phrase  under  her  tongue  with  pious  unction. 

Mr.  Salter  leaned  across  his  counter  upon  confi- 
dential elbows. 

''  Well,  now,  that's  what  I'd  like  t'  know;  'n' 
I  put  it  up  to  Milly  Orne  kind  o'  p'intedly,  only 
yiste'day.  '  What  sort  o'  folks  be  they,'  I  sez  t' 
Milly,  *  now  'at  you  come  to  know  'em  inti- 
mate? '  " 

''What  'd  Milly  say?  " 


132  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

''  *I  don't  know  'em  intimate,'  she  sez." 

*'  H'h!  "  commented  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  acidly. 
*'  She  must  know  whether  or  not  they're 
Chr-ristian  people." 

''  That's  what  I  sez  t'  Milly.  '  Ask  the  Blessin' 
reg'lar  at  th'  table?  '  I  sez.  An'  what  d'  you  think 
she  sez  t'  that?  " 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  shook  her  head,  which  sustained 
a  massive  structure  bristling  with  sharp-pointed 
feathers  of  excellent  wearing  qualities  and  fear- 
some aspect. 

''I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine,  Mr.  Salter,"  she 
replied,  in  a  tone  which  while  anticipating  the 
worst  w^as  piously  prepared  for  it. 

''  '  I  don't  eat  with  'em,'  she  sez;  '  so  I  can't 
tell  you!  '    That's  what  she  sez." 

Mr.  Salter's  face  expressed  a  subtle  enjoyment 
of  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  astonishment. 

"  Milly  Orne— eatin'  at  second  table?— Well,  I 
never!  Many  's  the  time  she's  'et  at  sociables  in 
the  church  parlour  an'  at  Sunday-school  picnics 
right  along  mth  my  own  children — for  all  what  's 
past  and  gone." 

*'  Milly  don't  eat  at  no  second  table,  neither," 
supplemented  Mr.  Salter,  still  enjoyably.  "  She 
was  havin'  her  dinner  in  the  kitchen  when  I  got 
there.  Not  that  I  don't  eat  in  th'  kitchen  m'self. 
*  What's  th'  use,'  I  tell  m'  wife,  '  a-mussin'  up 
two  rooms  with  vittles.'  B 'sides,  griddle-cakes 
tastes  better  right  smack  off  the  griddle.     Y'u 


MILLSTONES  AND  OPPORTUNITIES    133 

can't  beat  m'  wife's  buckwheats,  n'  matter  what 
y'u  do." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  turned  to  depart.  The  boasting 
reference  to  Mrs.  Salter's  buckwheats  jarred  upon 
her  sensibilities.  Everybody  knew  Jane  Salter 
couldn't  cook  anything  fit  to  eat. 

'*  I'm  afraid  the  Hills  ain't  my  kind  o'  folks," 
she  observed,  moving  majestic  toward  the  door, 
her  brown  paper  bag  clasped  in  both  hands. 

"  It's  a  rule  o'  my  life," — she  stated  to  her  pas- 
tor's wife,  when  recounting  the  substance  of  her 
conversation  with  Mr.  Salter — '^  to  say  no  more 
than  that  about  anybody.  Folks  are  either  my 
kind;  or  else  they  ain't.  Ef  they  ain't;  I  can't 
help  it.  All  I  c'n  do  is  t'  pray  for  'em.  That's 
what  I  tell  the  deacon." 

Mrs.  Pettibone's  ingenuous  blue  eyes  expressed 
a  resigned  interest  in  this  Buckthornian  view  of 
one's  duty  to  one's  neighbours. 

"  So  you  think,"  she  hesitated,  ''that  Milly 
isn't — happy  with  the  Hills?  " 

''Happy!"  echoed  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  sonor- 
ously. "  Happy?  No,  my  dear  Philura,  I  said 
nothing  with  regard  to  Milly  Orne's  liappiness. 
Why  should  she  be  happy?  You  and  I  know  a  girl 
of  Milly 's  antecedents  ought  to  consider  only  her 
duty." 

"  That's  what  she's  trying  to  do,"  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone  made  haste  to  reply.  "  She's  working  to 
earn  money  for  her  grandparents." 


134  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

**  I  guess  they  need  it,"  conceded  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn, with  severity;  '^  I  don't  take  milk  of  'em 
no  more." 

In  reply  to  Mrs.  Pettibone's  surprised  inquiries 
she  stated  that  the  Ornes  had  lost  their  best  cow; 
and  that,  for  her  part,  she  would  never  encourage 
anyone  to  put  water  in  their  milk,  however  needy. 
She  added,  darkly,  that  she  would  "  say  no 
more. ' ' 

Mrs.  Pettibone  did  not  report  the  matter  in  de- 
tail to  Mr.  Pettibone.  He  appeared  to  expect  an 
exalted  philosophy  of  life  from  her  which  she  was 
very  far  from  constantly  practising.  Old  habits 
of  thought,  like  miasmatic  mists,  were  always  clos- 
ing blindly  about  her;  and  it  was  often  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  remember  that  the  only 
reality  in  the  universe  was  the  All-Encircling 
Good. 

As  she  walked  quite  alone  in  the  direction  of  the 
Orne  cottage  she  was  striving  to  bring  vividly 
into  the  foreground  of  consciousness  the  wonder- 
ful truth,  as  it  had  first  dawned  upon  her  bewil- 
dered mind  that  day  in  Boston.  It  had  seemed  to 
her  then  so  astoundingly  simple,  so  sweetly 
natural  that  a  wayfaring  man,  though  a  fool, 
might  not  err  therein.  Well ;  she  was  not  a  way- 
faring man,  nor  yet  a  fool;  and  perhaps  that  was 
the  root  of  the  trouble.  A  fool  would  not  be 
troubled  with  doubts,  perplexities,  vain  hopes — 
nor  even  with  the  knowledge  of  a  faded  photo- 


MILLSTONES  AND  OPPORTUNITIES    135 

graph  well  hidden  from  view  between  the  leaves 
of  a  blotter. 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  walking  sedately  in  her  second- 
best  alpaca,  thought  with  a  little  pang  of  her 
husband  whom  she  had  left  at  his  writing-table, 
busily  engaged  upon  his  Sunday  evening  sermon 
for  young  people.  She  had  become  increasingly 
scrupulous  and  painstaking  of  late,  whenever  it 
became  necessary  to  disturb  the  ministerial 
privacy  with  calls  from  the  outside  world,  paus- 
ing before  the  study-door  with  a  gentle  cough  of 
warning,  or  a  cautious  and  prolonged  fumbling 
with  the  door-knob.  If  he  should  chance  to  be 
looking  at  the  picture — she  felt  that  she  could  not 
bear  it.  .    .    . 

Old  Mrs.  Orne  was  a  little  stiff  in  her  de- 
meanour to  her  pastor's  wife,  when  she  opened 
the  door  of  the  cottage  to  Mrs.  Pettibone 's  knock. 
She  had  remarked  more  than  once  to  Grandfather 
that  Milly  had  no  call  to  go  to  the  parsonage  for 
advice  and  counsel,  so  long  as  she  was  above 
ground,  and  had  pointedly  announced  her  inten- 
tion of  giving  Mrs.  Pettibone  "  a  good  piece  of  her 
mind,"  whenever  opportunity  offered.  But  Op- 
portunity, when  it  finally  arrived,  wore  so  sweet 
and  patient  a  smile,  was  so  gentle  and  sympathetic 
in  manner,  with  eyes  so  blue  under  childish  brows, 
and  small  feet  scarce  touching  the  floor  from  the 
height  of  Mrs.  Orne's  best  rush-bottomed  chair, 


136  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

that  the  old  woman's  simmering  resentment  some- 
how vanished  into  thin  air. 

''I'm  glad  you  come,"  Mrs.  Orne  said,  ''  I've 
been  wantin'  t'  talk  t'  you  'bout  Milly.  You  know 
she's — but  mebbe  you  put  it  int'  her  head  t'  work 
out?    I  kind  o'  got  that  idee." 

"  Not  exactly,"  she  said.  "  Milly  came  to  tell 
me  that  she  was  most  anxious  to " 

She  paused  to  choose  her  words  with  guileless 
duplicity. 

"  Dear  Milly  felt  that  now  she  was  quite  grown- 
up she  wanted  to  help.  And  so  " — smiling  timidly 
— "  I  spoke  to  her  of — Mrs.  Hill.  She  seemed  in 
great  need  of  someone  to — to  assist,  and  Milly  is 
such  a — — " 

'*  Milly 's  a  smart  girl,  an'  she's  a  good  girl," 
declared  Grandma  Orne,  nodding  her  head. 
''  The'  don't  nobody  need  t'  tell  me  that.  But — I 
wanted  she  should  stay  right  here  along  o' 
Gran 'pa  an'  me — till  she  got  married." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  murmured  sympathy  and  as- 
sent. 

''  She  ain't  got  no  lack  o'  beaux,"  the  old 
woman  went  on  boastfully.  ''  Two  or  three  of  'em 
's  b'en  here  this  week  pesterin'  me  'bout  Milly; 
'n'  I  didn't  want  to  tell  'em  she  was  workin'  out. 
'Twould  sp'ile  her  chance  with  sech  likely  young 
fellers  as  Seth  Marvin  an'  Ben  Buckthorn 
an' " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  coughed,  deprecatingly. 


MILLSTONES  AND  OPPORTUNITIES    137 

''  But  if  Milly  isn't — if  she  doesn't.— A  girl  like 
Milly  can't  marry  without " 

*'  Well,  now,  I  hope  you  didn't  go  an'  encourage 
her  in  that,"  Mrs.  Orne  interrupted,  shrilly. 
*'  '  FalUn'  in  love  ' — '  takin'  a  fancy  ' — LandT 
I'd  ruther  she'd  marry  some  good  honest  feller 
with  a  few  acres  o'  land  in  his  own  right.  Nate 
Scrimger  wants  t'  build  her  a  house  with  a  porch 
acrost  th'  front  an'  a  sink  in  th'  kitchen;  I  heerd 
him  tell  her  so.  But  Milly,  she  didn't  take  no 
fancy  V  Nate;  so  he's  quit  comin'." 

'*  But  you — fell  in  love  with  Mr.  Orne,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Pettibone,  pacifically,  "  didn't  you?  " 

*'  That  ain't  neither  here  ner  there,"  said  Mrs. 
Orne,  wi^h  dignity.  ''  You  don't  come  acrost  no 
young  fellers  like  Gran 'pa  was  in  his  young  days. 
Seems  's'o'  'twas  only  yiste'd'y  he  come  ridin'  up 
on  his  horse  t'  see  me, — me  a-wearin'  m'  new  blue 
calico,  trimmed  with  ruffles — b 'cause  I  suspicioned 
he  was  comin'  that  day.  The  yellow  roses  was  all 
in  blow.  I  r 'member  I'd  picked  a  big  posy  of  'em 
an'  put  it  in  th'  winder.  Thinks  s'l,  mebbe  he'll 
notice  it.  He  was  always  fond  o'  flowers — Caleb 
was.  But  he  didn't  even  look  at  'em.  He  jumps 
off  his  horse  an'  comes  straight  t'  where  I  was' 
sittin'  pertendin'  not  t'  take  notice  an'  over- 
handin'  a  seam  like  all  possess.  '  Millicent,'  he 
sez  .    .    ." 

The  old  voice  quavered  into  a  silence  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone did  not  break.    Through  the  small-paned 


138  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

window  she  could  see  Grandfather  Orne's  stooped 
figure  in  its  patched  blue  shirt,  busy  among  the 
ordered  rows  of  vegetables.  Perhaps  he,  too,  was 
thinking  of  the  day  when,  straight  and  tall,  he 
had  leaped  off  his  horse  and  come  straight  to  the 
girl  shyly  intent  upon  her  sewing,  with  the  words 
of  a  masterful  wooing  upon  his  lips. 

Mrs.  Orne  sighed  presently.   .    .    . 

''  I've  b'en  up  there,"  she  said,  fretfully. 

''  To  see  Milly?  " 

''  I  wanted  t'  find  out  what  kind  o'  folks  they 
was." 

Mrs.  Pettibone's  eyes  expressed  a  gentle  in- 
terest mingled  with  doubt. 

''  Well?  "  she  murmured. 

The  old  woman  leaned  forward,  her  knotted 
hands  resting  on  her  knees. 

'*  I  dunno,"  she  said,  and  shook  her  head.  '*  I 
dunno. ' ' 

"  You  mean  you  didn't " 

' '  I  seen  'em — all  three  of  'em.  The  woman  was 
out  in  th'  yard  when  I  come.  She  an'  th'  girl  was 
walkin'  'round  kind  of  aimless-like.  An'  the 
young  feller — her  husban';  ain't  he?  " 

''  Mr.  Walter  Hill  is  Mrs.  Hill's  son.  He  mar- 
ried his  cousin — the  young  lady  you  saw,"  Mrs. 
Pettibone  explained.  Then  she  added  doubtfully, 
*'  He  seemed  a  very  pleasant  young  man." 

''  He  doos,"  agreed  Mrs.  Orne,  promptly. 
'*  Mighty  pleasant  an'  soft-spoken.    The  woman 


MILLSTONES  AND  OPPOETUNITIES    139 

sez  t'  me  when  I  asked  fer  Milly, '  You'll  find  her 
in  th'  kitchen,  my  good  woman,'  she  sez.  '  Go 
'ronnd  back  an'  tell  Milly  t'  give  you  a  cup  of 
tea.'  The  girl,  she  never  looked  at  me  't  all,  no 
more  'n  's  if  I  was  a  hop-toad.  So  I  walks  'round 
back,  like  I  was  a  beggar-woman — but  first  I  tol' 
her  I  didn't  want  no  tea ;  I  had  m'  tea  't  home,  an' 
plenty  of  it,  thank  God !  ' ' 

Mrs.  Pettibone  stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair. 

''I'm  sure  Mrs.  Hill  meant — to  be  kind,**  she 
said,  after  a  little  silence,  during  which  the  nickel 
clock  on  the  shelf  over  her  head  seemed  to  tick 
angrily. 

"  Smooth  words  butter  no  parsnips,"  quoth  the 
old  woman,  oracularly.  "  I  wouldn't  *a'  eared 
nothin'  'bout  her  airs.  But  when  I  come  'round 
th'  house  I  seen  hhn  a-standin'  bare-headed  out- 
side th'  kitchen  winder — right  in  a  bed  o*  flowers- 
de-luce  he  was — his  arms  on  the  winder-sill.  I 
stopped  right  in  th'  middle  o'  m'  tracks  t'  see 
what  was  up.  An '  purty  soon  'long  comes  Milly 
with  a  tumbler  o'  water  an'  ban's  it  out  t'  him. 
Her  hair  was  all  curlin'  'round  her  face,  like  she'd 
b'en  all  bet  up  or  flustered  'bout  somethin',  'n' 
her  cheeks  was  pink  es  apple-blows.  ... 
Lord!  " 

"  Milly  is  such  a  pretty  girl,"  the  minister's 
wife  said,  softly. 

''  Pretty?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Orne.  ''—Pretty  ain't 
no  name  fer  it!    I  guess  I  know.    But  I  wisht  t' 


140  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUKA 

th'  Lord  she  was  hiimbly  es  a  hedge-fence.  I 
Tvisht  she  was  all  pitted  up  with  smallpox — I've 
seen  it  spile  many  a  han'some  face  in  my  young 
days.'' 

'^  Oh,  Mrs.  Orne!  "  deprecated  the  little  lady, 
in  the  rush-bottomed  chair. 

The  old  woman  gave  her  a  powerful  look. 

"  I  guess  you  ain't  f ergot  a 'ready,"  she  said, 
*'  n'  more  hev  I." 

*'  But  Mr.  Hill  is  married,  and  his  wife " 

*'  The'  ain't  no  love  lost  betwixt  them  two,  else 
he'd  a-b'en  out  walkin'  round  with  her,  'stead  o' 
talkin't'myMilly." 

*'  But  you  said  Milly  brought  him  a  glass  of 
water.  Surely  there  was  no  harm  in  that,"  Mrs. 
Pettibone  insisted.  ''  And  Milly — I'd  trust  Milly 
to  know  what  was  right  and " 

Mrs.  Orne  gave  vent  to  a  great  groaning  sigh, 
which  seemed  to  tear  its  way  painfully  from  her 
breast. 

''  Mebbe  I'm  an  old  fool,"  she  muttered.  ''  I 
guess  I  be — after  all  that's  come  an'  gone.  But 
I'm  awful  feared  o'  strangers.  .  .  .I'm  awful 
— feared.  ..." 

There  followed  a  heavy  silence  in  the  room 
which  the  nickel  clock  on  the  shelf  laboured  to  fill 
with  its  anxious  ticking.  Outside  long  sprays  of 
bridal  wreath,  just  coming  into  snowy  perfection 
of  bloom,  blew  against  the  pane.  Beyond  the  good 
brown  earth  of  the  garden  with  its  rows  of  sprout- 


MILLSTONES  AND  OPPORTUNITIES    141 

iug  green  was  the  orchard,  dimly  pink  against  a 
sky  mottled  with  snow-white  clouds.  A  bluebird 
flitted  past,  like  a  flash  of  mid-heaven,  his  musical 
gurgle  streaming  far  behind  him. 

Philura  Pettibone  roused  herself.  There  was 
an  All-Encircling  Good.  Everything  in  nature 
proclaimed  it.  The  certainty  of  it  stirred  once 
more  strong  and  sweet  within  her  breast. 

''  Milly  is  safe,"  she  pronounced,  slowly» 
*'  You  mustn't  be  afraid.  She  is  quite — quite 
safe." 

The  old  woman  stared,  with  a  dull  air  of  resent- 
ment. 

"  You  mean — r'ligion,  I  s'pose,"  she  said, 
sullenly. 

*'  I  mean — God,"  half  whispered  the  minister's 
little  wife.  ' '  Your  Milly  lives  and  moves  and  has 
her  being  in — God — Love.  Love  will — ^not — lose 
— her.  ..." 

Mrs.  Orne  was  rocking  her  bent  old  figure  from 
side  to  side.  "  That's  all  very  well — nice  r'ligious 
kind  of  talk — fer  them  that  ain't  seen  trouble.  I 
us't  t'  be  awful  r'ligious  when  my  Milly  was  little. 
Every  night  I  made  her  say  her  little  prayer, 
a-kneelin'  down  by  me.  'N'  every  night  reg'lar,  I 
said  my  prayers,  askin' — God — t' — t'  take  care  o' 
my  little  girl.  But  th'  come  a  night  when — when 
I  could  'a'  cursed  Him  t'  His  face!  He  didn't 
take  no  care  o'  my  little  girl.  She  was  let  t'  be — 
crushed — like  one  o'  them  white  flowers — ^in  th© 


142  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

mud.  .  .  .  Since  I  stood  b'  her  coffin — with — 
Milly,  a  little  wailin'  mite  in  my  arms — I  ain't 
prayed.   .    .    ." 

"  Bnt — but  it's  true — only  we — we  don't — 
understand. ' '  Mrs.  Pettibone  's  troubled  face  had 
blanched  almost  to  the  colour  of  the  bridal  flowers 
tapping  softly  on  the  pane. 

"  We — don't  know,"  she  repeated.  ''  We — 
can't,  somehow.  But  God — ^understands.  And 
we  must — believe — God.  If  we  don't — oh!  Mrs. 
Orne,  life  isn't  worth  living — if  we  don't — 
believe !  ' ' 

Her  voice  rose,  filling  every  corner  of  the  silent 
old  room,  like  a  clear  wind,  sent  forth  to  pene- 
trate and  scatter  dull  masses  of  leaden  fog. 

Milly 's  grandmother  moved  a  little  in  her  chair, 
as  if  the  breath  of  that  wind  had  reached  and 
stirred  her  heavy  thoughts. 

''  'Tain't  often  I  go  on  this  way,"  she  apolo- 
gised, weakly.  ''  I  know  'tain't  right  t'  be  so — 
r'bellious.  But  Milly— Milly 's  all  we  got  left;  'n' 
I — I'm  awful  feared  o'  strangers." 


CHAPTER  Xin 

NOT  AT  HOME  TO  VISITORS 

The  sun  was  still  an  hour  above  the  horizon  when 
Mrs.  Pettibone — somewhat  shaken  and  pale  of 
face,  after  her  half-hour  alone  with  grief — came 
forth  into  the  soft  light  of  the  afternoon.  She 
would  have  time,  she  thought,  to  walk  the  scant 
mile  which  separated  her  from  the  scene  of  Milly; 
Orne's  new  activities.  Mrs.  Pettibone  was  not  a 
very  astute  person,  being  amiably  inclined  to  take 
everyone  at  his  own  valuation.  In  place  of 
worldly  wisdom,  however,  she  was  often  aware  of 
intuitions — familiarly  known  as  "  feelings,"  not 
to  be  denied  or  otherwise  put  down;  and  these 
*'  feelings  "  (she  found)  were  timidly,  but  no  less 
stubbornly  arrayed  against  the  higher  dicta  of 
an  idealistic  philosophy,  as  she  proceeded  reso- 
lutely on  her  way.  She  decided  that  since  she 
had  herself  assisted  in  bringing  about  the  change 
in  Milly  Orne's  life,  she  must,  somehow,  control 
its  consequences.  Not  knowing  that  consequences, 
like  other  seemingly  blind  forces  in  nature,  cannot 
be  controlled. 

But  her  resolution,  however  futile,  served  to 
give  poise  and  even  a  degree  of  boldness  to  her 
manner,  as  in  due  time  she  mounted  the  steps  in 

143 


144  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

front  of  the  old  Eggleston  mansion.  Milly  her- 
self, prettier  than  ever  in  a  fresh  blue  gingham 
and  frilly  white  apron,  opened  the  door. 

The  ladies,  she  said,  were  not  at  home. 

Then  she  blushed  very  prettily. 

"  She  told  me  to  say  it,"  she  whispered.  ''  It 
means — they  don't  want  to  see  anybody.  Mrs. 
Hill  says  it's  perfectly  proper." 

'^  But  I  may  come  in  and  see  you,  Milly?  " 

The  girl  hesitated,  gazing  at  her  pastor's  wife 
from  under  her  long,  curved  lashes. 

* '  I — I  might  walk  with  you  a  piece, ' '  she  said, 
doubtfully.  '^  But  if  you  come  in  I  should  have 
to  take  you  to  the  kitchen.  You  see  I'm  being — 
trained." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  frowned  quite  portentously  for 
a  person  with  no  eyebrows  to  speak  of. 

''  I  see  you  are,"  she  said,  while  the  recal- 
citrant *  *  feelings  ' '  surged  up  very  strong  indeed 
within  her. 

After  a  moment  of  natural  hesitation  she  added : 

''I'm  coming  'round  to  the  kitchen,  my  dear. 
It  won't  hurt  me  in  the  least,  and  now  that  I  think 
of  it  I've  often  visited  with  Miss  Minerva  Eggles- 
ton in  the  kitchen,  when  she  happened  to  be  busy. 
I  know  the  place  very  well." 

Milly  thought  that  was  ''  different."  But  she 
obediently  closed  the  door  while  Mrs.  Pettibone 
picked  her  way  through  the  long  grass  to  the  rear 
entrance.     Of  the   closeted  ladies  within  there 


NOT  AT  HOME  TO  VISITORS        145 

v/as  no  sign,  though  she  fancied  she  detected  the 
low  murmur  of  voices  floating  out  from  an  open 
window. 

"  This  is  a  real  nice  kitchen,"  Milly  said,  with 
faint  embarrassment,  as  she  set  forth  a  well- 
scrubbed  chair  for  her  visitor. 

"  Yes;  it  is,"  agreed  Mrs.  Pettibone,  glancing 
around  the  old  room,  the  scene  of  Miss  Minerva 
Eggleston's  slow  metamorphosis  from  defiant 
youth  to  resigned  middle  age.  "  You — I  hope  you 
find  it — pleasant  here?  " 

The  girl  hesitated,  looking  down  at  her  reddened 
fingers. 

''  There  is  a  great  deal  of  hard  work  to  do," 
she  said.  ''  But — I  don't  mind  that.  I'm  all  the 
time  thinking  about  the  nice  new  roof  we'll  have 
next  winter,  and  the  cow — I  can  buy  the  cow  for 
Gran 'father  before  long." 

**  And  you  don't  mind — Mrs.  Hill  is — consid- 
erate! " 

Milly  looked  up  quickly,  her  lips  parting  in  a 
doubtful  smile. 

*'  It  isn't  as  if  I  had  to  stay  always,"  she  said. 
"  I  couldn't  do  that.  But  just  this  summer  I  don't 
mind — ^very  much." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  reflected  soberly.  It  would  not 
be  right,  she  was  thinking,  to  instill  the  poison  of 
evil  suspicion  into  the  girl's  mind.  And  what, 
indeed,  was  there  to  suspect? 

Milly  was  gazing  at  her  intently. 


146  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

"  You've  been  to  see  my  Gran 'mother;  haven't 
you?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  did  not  deny  it. 

"  And  she  is  worried  about  me;  and  now  you 

are    wondering    whether    I But    you    see, 

Gran 'mother  has  always  been  worried  about  me — 
ever  since  I  can  remember.  Of  course  it's 
foolish." 

Milly  smiled,  revealing  the  edges  of  her  pretty 
teeth. 

"  She'll  be  glad  next  winter  though;  won't 
she?" 

''I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  murmured  the  minister's 
wife,  mechanically. 

She  was  skirting  her  way  about  the  difficult 
subject  of  which  she  wished  to  speak,  timidly  in- 
tent upon  her  duty. 

' '  Are  you — have  you  become  better  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Walter  Hill?  "  she  propounded,  after 
a  pause.  "  She  seems  very  young — about  your 
o^vn  age,  I  should  say." 

Milly  shook  her  head.  She  was  still  smiling,  as 
if  she  already  guessed  what  her  \dsitor  was  think- 
ing and  found  it  faintly  amusing. 

"  Young  Mrs.  Hill  doesn't  notice  me  at  all," 
she  sai.d,  frankly.  "  I  never  see  her  to  speak 
to  her." 

Mrs.  Pettibone 's  childish  eyes  expressed  disap- 
pointment. 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  per- 


NOT  AT  HOME  TO  VISITORS       147 

haps  a  cheerful  young  girl  like  yourself  ruight — 
And  Mrs.  Hill — the  mother — you  are  naturally 
with  her  a  good  deal!  " 

"  Mrs.  Hill  is  always  with  her  daughter.  Of 
course  I  see  her,  mornings  sometimes,  out  here,  or 
when — when  she  tells  me  things,  like  to-day." 

A  conscious  flush  rose  to  Mrs.  Pettibone's  faded 
cheek. 

*'  You  must  be  very — lonely  here,"  she  con- 
cluded, with  what  she  felt  to  be  machiavelian 
duplicity. 

' '  I  should  be,  if  it  were  not  for  Mr.  Hill, ' '  said 
Milly.    ' '  He  is  very  kind. ' ' 

''  Kind!  "  echoed  the  minister's  wife,  very  pink 
and  agitated.    "  Kind!  " 

"  Well,  you  see  Mrs.  Hill  seems  to  forget  that 
I  am  here,  sometimes,"  explained  Milly,  "  and  if 
it  were  not  for  Mr.  Hill — I  shouldn't  know  what 
to  do  always — where  to  find  things,  I  mean,  and 
what  to  have  for  dinner,  and " 

"  Isn't  that  just  a  little  odd,  my  dear?  "  ques- 
tioned the  minister's  wife,  her  voice  trembling. 
*'  Hasn't  Mr.  Hill  anything  to  do — any  business, 
— or,  one  would  think  he  might  be  very  much  occu- 
pied with  his  wife." 

Milly  again  shook  her  head,  a  troubled  pucker 
appearing  between  her  brows. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  anything, 
here,"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  ''  But — 
oughtn't  I  to  do  my  work  as  well  as  I  can  and — 


148  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

not  try  to  understand?  These  people  will  go 
away  in  the  fall,  and  I  shall  never  see  them  any 
more.  Bnt  just  now  I  can  help  them — cooking 
their  meals  and  keeping  everything  tidy,  and — 
Oh,  I'm  not  old  or  wise,  like  Gran 'mother;  but 
why  should  I  be  afraid  of — anything  or  anyone — 
as  long  as  I  do  the  best  I  can — to  help  1  ' ' 

The  girl's  face  as  she  said  this  wore  a  look  so 
innocently  sweet  and  strong  that  Mrs.  Pettibone 
felt  suddenly  ashamed  of  her  little  horde  of 
worldly  wisdom.  She  took  the  rough  little  hand 
in  both  her  own. 

*'  You  are  a  good  girl,  Milly,"  she  said,  warmly. 
*'  If  you  will  just  trust  God  to  guide  you — and 
keep  on  helping " 

The  girl's  expression  changed  subtly,  and  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  suddenly  aware  of  an  unfriendly  pres- 
ence in  the  room,  turned  to  face  the  mistress  of 
the  house. 

Mrs.  Hill  advanced  a  few  steps,  her  face  twisted 
in  an  odd  smile,  her  plump  hands  moving  slowly 
the  one  over  the  other. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  voices,"  she  said,  blandly. 
"  In  the  country,  it  seems,  one  must  secure  one's 
privacy  behind  locked  doors." 

Mrs.  Pettibone 's  eyes,  opened  very  wide  and 
blue,  suddenly  blinked  as  if  she  had  received  a 
dash  of  cold  water  full  in  the  face. 

**  I  had  no — thought  of — intruding,"  she  said, 
with  surprising  dignity.    '*  I  came  to  call  upon 


NOT  AT  HOME  TO  VISITORS        149 

you  and  your  daughter;  but  I  meant  to  ask  for 
Milly.  Indeed,  I  came  eliiefly  to  see  whether  she 
was  happy  in  her  position  here ;  since  I — in  a  way 
— am  responsible  for  her  jDresence  in  your  house." 

Mrs.  Hill  moved  her  large  shoulders  deprecat- 
ingly. 

"  You  quite  misunderstand  me,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Pettibone.  I  beg  to  assure  you  we  fully  appreciate 
your  interest  in  our  affairs.  Won't  you — I  think 
I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  for  a  moment." 

Her  gesture  peremptorily  remanded  the  small 
person  in  drab  alpaca  to  the  room  from  which 
she  had  so  quietly  emerged  a  moment  before. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  remained  standing  after  two 
doors  had  closed  noiselessly  behind  them.  She 
was  swiftly  reviewing  the  conversation  she  had 
just  had  with  Milly  Orne  and  wondering  what  she 
ought  to  have  said,  in  view  of  the  facts. 

Mrs.  Hill  pointed  to  a  chair. 

*'  Kindly  be  seated,"  she  said,  coldly.  *'  It 
occurs  to  me  that  since  I  am  employing  a  servant 
in  whom  so  many  persons  appear  to  take  an 
interest " 

Mrs.  Pettibone 's  eyes  conveyed  an  indignant 
question,  which  Mrs.  Hill  proceeded  at  once  to 
answer. 

''  I  am  not  referring  altogether  to  yourself, 
Mrs.  Pettibone;  your  own  solicitude  for  the  girl  is 
certainly  natural;  I  might  say  in  a  way,  profes- 
sional.   But  there  are  others — the  trades-people, 


150  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

and  the  girl's  relatives.  Really,  it  is  quite  extraor- 
dinary." 

* '  I  think  you  must  have  misunderstood  what  I 
said  to  you  about  Milly,'^  began  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
"  She  is  not '' 

Mrs.  Hill  waved  her  hand. 

''  AVe'll  not  go  into  that,'^  she  said,  dryly. 
"  Granted  the  girl  is  what  persons  of  her  class 
call  '  a  perfect  lady  ^;  she  nevertheless  possesses 
a  tongue,  and  doubtless  forms  opinions." 

**  She  has  told  me  nothing,"  began  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone. 

*'  Yet  you  were  cross-questioning  her  with  con- 
siderable adroitness.  What  do  you  want  to 
know?  " 

The  minister's  wife  suddenly  bethought  herself 
of  the  Presbyterial  dignities  which  she  repre- 
sented. Her  manner  as  she  rose  to  her  feet  con- 
veyed a  rebuke  commensurate  to  the  offence. 

"  I  can  see  very  little  use  in  talking  with  you," 
she  said,  slowly.    "  You  are  not " 

**  You  would  like  to  tell  me  that  I  am  not  a 
lady, ' '  smiled  Mrs.  Hill.  ' '  — No ;  don 't  go.  There 
is  something  I  want  you  to  hear — from  me." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  drawn  her  little  figure  to 
its  full  height,  looking  down  at  the  woman,  who 
remained  seated,  with  grave  dignity. 

"  We  came  here,'*  Mrs.  Hill  went  on,  without 
apparent  perturbation,  ''  in  order  that  we  might 
be  quite  alone  and  unnoticed.    One  would  suppose 


NOT  AT  HOME  TO  VISITOES        151 

that  in  a  remote  country  place,  like  this,  one 

might Don't  interr"uj)t  me,  if  you  please.    I 

acknowledge  that  I  am  beaten.  And  so  I  shall  tell 
you  something  of  ourselves,  and  you  will  oblige 
me  by  repeating  it  to  the  persons  in  your  parish, 
who  may  be  interested." 

''  I  think  I  should  prefer  not  to " 

Mrs.  Hill  smiled,  disagreeably. 

' '  Oh !  But  I  insist.  Kindly  understand  that  I 
am  taking  you  into  my  confidence,  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
because  you  are  the  wife  of  the  local  clergyman; 
and  I  very  much  prefer  to  have  you  tell  people 
about  us — quite  naturally,  you  know,  at  an  after- 
noon tea  perhaps,  or  a  church  social — to  having 
Salter,  the  grocer,  or  the  old  woman  who  comes 
to  see  my  maid,  retail  the  impressions  of  that 
worthy  young  woman.  Of  course,  I  understand 
that  personally  you  feel  no  curiosity — er — take 
no  interest,  as  you  call  it, — in  us,  or  our  affairs. 
But  you  do  take  an  interest  in  the  girl,  Milly,  as 
you  have  proved  this  afternoon." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  took  two  steps  toward  the  door, 
an  indignant  exclamation  escaping  her  lips. 

The  woman  sat  quite  motionless,  watching  her 
narrowly. 

' '  If  I  should  tell  you  I  am  in  deep  trouble,  you 
would  listen;  wouldn't  you? — I  thought  so.  Now, 
sit  down — there's  a  good  creature,  and  let  me  tell 
you." 

But  she  did  not  speak  further  for  a  long  minute, 


152  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

during  which  Mrs.  Pettibone  nervously  examined 
the  tips  of  her  shabby  gloves.  It  was  her  duty, 
she  thought,  to  hear  what  the  woman  had  to 
say. 

''  When  you  met  my — son's  wife,  in  the  woods 
some  weeks  ago,"  resumed  Mrs.  Hill,  with  dry 
deliberation, ' '  did  she  impress  you  as  being  quite 
—rational?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  hesitated,  recalling  the  wild 
looks  and  gestures  of  the  tragic  young  figure. 

"  She  seemed  to  be  in  deep  trouble  of  some 
kind,"  she  said,  slowly,  *' — like  one  who  has  kept 
something  hidden  for  so  long,  that  it  bursts  out 
as  a  kind  of  relief." 

The  woman's  lashes  lifted  with  a  jerk. 

''  Then  she  told  you What  did  she  say?  '* 

,  ' '  She  did  not  know  that  I  was  anywhere  about 
— at  first,  and  I  did  not  understand.  It  was  all 
incoherent. ' ' 

''  You  spoke  to  her?  " 

"  I  asked  her  to  tell  me  what  was  the  matter. 
I  was  very  much  surprised  to  meet  anyone  in 
those  woods.  We  had  not  heard  the  place  was 
let." 

"  Well?    You  asked  her,  and  she  told  you '* 

^'  I  thought  at  first  she  was  a  mere  child — ^her 
hair  was  hanging  in  a  long  braid,  and " 

The  woman  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

*'  She  likes  it  best  that  way.  She  told  you — 
what?  " 


NOT  AT  HOME  TO  VISITORS        153 

**  She  said  she  was  married,  and  that  her  name 
was  Sylvia  Cruden." 

''  Is  that  all?  " 

''All  that  I  think  of." 

Mrs.  Pettiborne  looked  directly  at  her  inquisi- 
tor. "  I  can  think  of  nothing  else,"  she  re- 
peated. 

Mrs.  Hill  was  staring  at  her  with  curious  in- 
tentness. 

"  That  is  Sylvia's  illusion,"  she  said.  "  She 
thinks  she  is  married  to  another  man.  Of  course 
it  is  very  painful  for  me  to  speak  of  this — very 
painful  for  my  son.  She  will  recover,  of  course, 
in  due  time.  On  that  score  we  have  no  anxiety — 
no  anxiety  whatever." 

The  woman's  voice  rang  flat  and  insincere. 

*'  Why  do  you  tell  me  this?  "  asked  the  min- 
ister's wife. 

"  Because  I  want  you  to  know  it.  You  can  ex- 
plain, if  anyone  asks  you,  that  we  do  not  receive 
visitors,  and  that  we  are  not  in  need  of  popular 
sympathy — which  is  merely  another  word  for 
officious  curiosity." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  stood  up,  her  little  figure  still 
panoplied  in  Presbyterial  dignity. 

"  I  am  sorry — for  your  daughter,"  she  mur- 
mured— "  and  for  you.  I  am  not — curious,  as 
you  seem  to  think;  I  only  wanted  to  help." 

Mrs.  Hill's  face  twisted  painfully,  as  if  the 
words  had  touched  a  hidden  spring  of  violent  emo- 


154  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

tion.  Then  her  features  composed  themselves  into 
their  usnal  expressionless  calm. 

''  In  a  case  of  this  kind  nothing  can  be  done  by 
an  outsider, ' '  she  said,  in  a  slow,  cold  voice.  * '  I 
shall  do  for  Sylvia — ^what  must  be  done.  No  one 
can  help." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  moved  quietly  toward  the  door. 
When  she  had  reached  it,  she  turned  and  looked 
at  the  woman,  who  still  sat  stolidly  in  her  chair 
by  the  window,  her  face,  in  the  waning  afternoon 
light,  curiously  resembling  a  mask  of  old  ivory, 
with  motionless  eyes  of  jade. 

*'  I  shall  not  come  again,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
' '  unless  you  send  for  me.  And — I  shall  not  speak 
of  what  you  have  told  me.  I  can  see  no  reason 
for  doing  so.  As  for  Milly,  I  think  you  can  trust 
her.  She  may  not  be  a  lady,  after  your  way  of 
thinking;  but  she  is  true  and  good.  She  will  do 
what  she  can  to  make  things  easier  for  you." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MILLY  DRIVES  THE  CX)W 

The  narrow  country  road,  hardly  more  than  a 
wagon-track  between  opposing  walls  of  greenery, 
was  pleasantly  cool  and  moist  with  a  recent 
shower.  Here  and  there  a  sun-warmed  puddle  re- 
flected the  dazzling  blue  of  the  sky,  and  furnished 
a  playground  for  innumerable  butterflies,  whit© 
and  pale  yellow,  which  fluttered  and  lifted  before 
the  sedate  steps  of  a  dun  cow,  only  to  settle  again, 
their  gay  wings  moving  gently  like  wind-blown 
blossoms.  Wild  roses  in  their  first  frail  bloom 
painted  the  wayside  with  splashes  of  pink,  and 
tall  bull  thistles,  beloved  of  flying  things,  lifted 
their  mailed  heads  of  purple  and  white  among  the 
twinkling  leaves.  There  was  a  warm  sweet  smell 
of  newly  unfolded  ferns  and  wild  strawberries 
hiding  in  the  tall  grass.  The  dun  cow  would  have 
paused  to  munch  and  consider,  but  the  girl  walk- 
ing behind  gently  urged  her  forward  with  light 
flicks  of  the  leafy  branch  she  carried. 

And  so  in  due  time  the  cow,  tliinking  her  bovine 
thoughts  of  grass  and  sweet-smelling  clover  in  the 
meadows  beyond,  and  the  girl,  smiling  with  joyous 
anticipation,  covered  the  scant  mile  of  their 
journey. 

155 


156  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

Grandfather  Orne  was  weeding  the  onions,  a 
task  requiring  concentrated  attention,  when  the 
eyes  of  the  worker  can  scarcely  distinguish  be- 
twixt the  slender  onion  shoots  and  the  thrifty 
young  weeds  crowding  close  and  greedy.  His 
dull  ears  failed  to  apprise  him  of  the  deliberate 
footfalls  of  the  dun  cow,  as  she  was  skilfully  in- 
duced by  the  combined  action  of  the  girl  and  the 
leafy  bough  to  pass  through  the  deftly  drawn  bars. 
Here  were  shade  and  stretches  of  green  grass  and 
the  sound  of  water  running  over  smooth  stones; 
the  dun  cow  gazed  about  her  with  placid  eyes 
of  contentment.  The  girl  stood  watching  the  cow 
for  a  gleeful  moment;  then,  gathering  her  skirts 
about  her,  slipped  through  the  hedge  and  across 
"the  garden,  her  light  feet  making  no  sound  on  the 
soft  earth. 

''  Gran 'father!  " 

The  old  man  raised  himself  with  a  grunt. 

*' Eh!— What?  Why,  Milly!— Where 'd  you 
come  f'om,  I'd  like  t'  know?  " 

''  From  the  pasture.  Gran 'father." 

''  Come  cross  lots. — Eh?  Well,  well!  you  sure 
are  growin';  seems  t'  me  you  look  taller  'n'  bigger 
every  time  I  see  you.    Seen  your  Gran 'ma?  " 

'*  Not  yet." 

The  girl's  demure  face  conveyed  a  subtle  sense 
of  mystery;  her  blue  eyes  danced  under  the  wind- 
blown tendrils  of  her  blond  hair.  She  put  up  her 
hand  to  push  them  away. 


MILLY  DRIVES  THE  COW  157 

*'  I  bet  you  b'en  up  t'  sometliing  'er  otlier," 
chuckled  tlie  old  man,  sitting  back  on  bis  haunches 
and  peering  up  with  an  air  of  superior  sagacity. 
*'  I  always  knowed  when  you  was  gittin'  ready 
fer  mischief.  I  ust'  t'  tell  yer  Gran 'ma,  '  Keep 
an  eye  on  her,'  I  sez,  '  th's  somethin'  doin'  when 
Milly  gits  that  spark  in  her  eye.'  'Member  how 
you  upset  the  bee-hive  one  day  t'  see  if  the'  was 
any  honey!  We  didn't  hev  t'  smack  ye  fer  that. 
The  bees  seen  to  it  you  was  'tended  to,  good  an*^ 
proper." 

The  girl's  laugh  rang  out. 

"  I  remember,"  she  said.  '*  It  isn't  bees  this 
time. ' ' 

"  Not  bees — eh?  Well,  I  guess  you'd  better  go 
in  an'  find  yer  Gran 'ma.  She's  always  talkin' 
'bout  you,  f'om  mornin'  till  night.  'N'  I  guess 
she  dreams  'bout  you  'most  every  night.  I  had  t' 
shake  her  good  las'  night  t'  wake  her  up.  She 
was  a-whinin'  an'  cryin'  in  her  sleep.  '  What  on 
airth  's  the  matter  with  you.  Mother?  '  I  sez.  An' 
come  t'  find  out  she'd  b'en  dreamin'  some  fool 
thing  er  other  'bout  you." 

Milly 's  smile  faded. 

^'  I  wish  Gran 'mother  wouldn't  worry  about 
me,"  she  said,  soberly. — ''  Can't  you  make  her 
stop,  Gran 'father?  You  see,  I'm  grown  up,  now,, 
and  know  how  to  take  care  of  myself. ' ' 

The  old  man  blew  his  nose  a  resounding  blast 
on  his  red  bandanna  handkerchief. 


158  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

"  Shucks!  "  he  said,  defiantly.  "  Y'u  might  es 
well  try  t'  keep  th'  ol'  red  cow  f'om  chewin'  on 
her  cud.  I  guess  yer  Gran 'ma  enjoys  worryin' 
full  es  much,  an'  docs  it  as  constant." 

The  girl  laughed  outright.  Then  she  caught  the 
old  man  by  the  sleeve.  ' '  Look !  ' '  she  commanded, 
pointing  to  the  pasture,  where  the  dun  cow  was 
making  leisurely  survey  of  her  new  domain. 

*'  Heh? — ^What  in  creation!  Where 'd  that  crit- 
ter come  f'om?    Blowed  if  it  don't  look  like 

Say!  I  knowed  you'd  b'en  up  t'  somethin'. 
Can't  fool  yer  Gran 'pa!  " 

*'  She's  part  Jersey,  Gran 'father. — ^Wait!  I'll 
run  and  get  Gran 'mother.  She's  all  yours — yours 
an'  Gran 'mother's." 

But  Grandmother  was  already  pushing  past  the 
unpruned  rose-bushes,  which  stood  guard  over 
the  vegetable  patch,  scattering  showers  of  pale 
pink  leaves  from  their  lavish  bloom.  She  took 
the  girl  in  her  arms  with  a  little  tender  cry  of  joy. 

"  I  dreamed  las'  night  you  was  in  some  sort  o' 
trouble,"  she  quavered.  ^'  An'  thinks  I,  I'll  go 
up  t'  the  farm  this  aft 'noon  an'  see  Milly.  But 
you  're  all  right ;  ain  't  you,  deary  1  Land ;  I  b  'en 
so  worried  all  th'  mornin'. " 

"  Now  you  see  how  foolish  it  is,"  chided  the 
girl.    ''  I'm  as  right  as  right  can  be." 

"  What'd  I  tell  ye,"  crowed  the  old  man. 
^'  Chewin'  the  cud  o'  trouble  all  th'  endurin'  while. 
Come  on  out  t'  th'  pastur',  Mother,  an'  le's  see 


MILLY  DRIVES  THE  COW  159 

what  we  c'n  find.  Ye '11  hev  t '  look  close ;  yer  eye- 
sight ain't  what  it  was  a  spell  back." 

And  thus  the  chief  conspirator  and  her  gleeful 
coadjutor  guilefully  baited  the  credulous  old  lady. 
The  dun  cow  had  "  got  in  t'  th'  pastur'  somehow 
er  other."  Did  Gran 'mother  think  she  looked  like 
one  of  Farmer  Craddock's  herd?  And  how  was 
she  ever  to  be  restored  to  her  proper  o'wner? 

"  I  bet  Milly,  here,  couldn't  drive  a  cow  t'  save 
her  life,"  piped  Grandfather.  ''  Anyway,  not  a 
frisky  young  heifer  like  that.  Say,  she  looks  like 
some  Jersey  t'  me.  Come  on.  Gran 'ma,  le^s  take 
a  good  squint  at  her.  I  got  a  good  mind  t'  milk 
her.    It  'd  be  a  charity." 

''  I  would,  Gran 'father,"  chimed  in  Milly. 
'^  I'll  go  get  your  stool  an'  th'  pail." 

"  You'll  do  nothin'  of  the  kind,"  cried  the 
scandalised  old  woman. — "  She'd  ought  t'  be 
driv'  home  right  off;  it's  full  early  fer  milkin' 
yet." 

"  I  don't  see  how  in  creation  that  critter  got 
int'  th'  pastur',"  cogitated  Grandfather,  scratch- 
ing his  head.  ''Bars  is  up — b 'en  up  all  day.  By 
cracky!  She  must  'a'  jumped  clean  over  the 
fence !  Fetch  that  stool  here,  Milly.  I'm  goin'  t' 
milk  her,  sure  es  you're  a  foot  high;  'n'  I'll  bet  I 
get  sech  a  pail  full  es  you  ain't  seen  in  one  good 
while.    Got  plenty  clean  pans,  Gran 'ma!  " 

But  here  Milly,  being  soft-hearted,  told  Grand- 
mother, between  laughing  and  crying,  how  she  had 


160  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

bouglit  the  cow  the  evening  before  and  paid  for  her 
with  the  wages  she  had  earned. 

Grandmother  wiped  her  eyes  and  kissed  the 
girl's  glowing  cheek.  ^'  Dear,  dear!  "  she  mur- 
mured. "  It's  awful  nice  t'  hev  th'  cow.  But, 
honey,  I  don't  like  your  livin'  up  there  along  o' 
them  strange  folks.  Mebbe  they're  all  right. — 
Yes,  I  know  you  say  they  be.  But  they're 
strange  t'  me,  'n'  I  don't  like  the  looks  o'  that 
woman." 

"  They're  going  away  in  November,"  Milly 
said,  soothingly, 

''  Goin'  where?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Orne,  sus- 
piciously. 

"  Back  where  they  came  from,  I  suppose. 
They're  only  here  for  the  summer." 

' '  Where  'd  they  come  from  ?  I  sh  'd  think  some 
of  'em  'd  name  the  place  by  now." 

But  Milly  didn't  know.  She  thought  it  didn't 
matter,  anyway. 

''  'Tain't  natural,"  contradicted  Mrs.  Orne. 
**  Y'u  needn't  tell  me.  Ef  I  was  t'  go  'way  some 
place  fur  the  summer  don't  you  s'pose  I'd  tell 
folks  where  I  come  from?  Well,  I  guess! 
Wouldn't  wait  fer  'em  t'  ask,  neither." 

Milly  pulled  a  pink  rose  from  the  bush,  her 
white  forehead  puckered  thoughtfully.  "  Oh,  well, 
we're — different,"  she  said,  slowly;  '^  we  don't 
like — hiding  things  or  having  secrets.  Some  peo- 
ple make  a  secret  of  'most  anything.     I  guess 


MILLY  DRIVES  THE  COW  161 

they're  that  kind.  They  don't  want  to  be  friends 
with  the  people  'round  here." 

' '  J  'rus  'lem  crickets !  ' '  cried  Grandfather,  who 
had  just  returned  from  a  jubilant  inspection  of 
the  new  cow.  ' '  That  there  critter 's  more  'n  half 
Jersey,  er  I'm  a  liar!  We  c'n  make  butter. 
Mother.  I  bet  you  c'd  beat  them  creamery  folks 
all  holler." 

Mrs.  Ome  smiled,  tolerantly,  her  eyes  on  her 
grand-daughter. 

"  Goin'  t'  stay  t'  supper,  ain't  you,  deary?  '* 
she  asked,  wistfully. 

But  Milly  shook  her  head.  She  must  hurry 
home,  she  said,  to  get  dinner. 

The  two  old  folks  stood  watching  the  girl's  slim 
figure  till  it  was  on  the  point  of  disappearing  be- 
hind a  clump  of  trees. 

''  Y'u  don'  want  t'  stand  an'  watch  her  out  o' 
sight,"  warned  Grandmother,  carefully  averting 
her  eyes. 

^'  Don't  ye  s'pose  I  know  that?  "  retorted 
Grandfather,  indignantly.  **  Anyhow,  you've 
tol'  me  'nough  times.  Blame  fool  notion,  I 
say!  " 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  I'd  feel  some  easier  'bout  Milly 
ef  them  folks  didn't  eat  their  dinner  at  night," 
quavered  Grandmother,  plaintively.  "  It  don't 
seem  Christian-like." 

''  Dinner  er  supper,  can't  see's  it's  goin' t'  hurt 
Milly  none,"  spluttered  Grandfather.    "  Ef  folks 


162  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

want  t'  name  their  meals  up  differ 'nt,  what  d'  yon 
care?  " 

*'  An'  ef  they'd  only  say,  right  out,  they  was 
f'om  some  place  er  other  we  knowed  'bout " 

"  Durn  it!  "  cried  Grandfather.  '^ — Jes'  's  I 
was  feeling  good  'bout  the  cow. — Yes !  I  will  say 
it !  Makes  me  feel  a  sight  better.  Double  durn ! 
S' there!" 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  be  goin'  in  th'  house,"  com- 
mented Grandmother,  quite  pink  with  righteous 
anger. 

She  turned  after  a  few  steps,  her  round  old  face 
aglow  with  the  light  of  a  fresh  purpose. 

"  Seein'  we  got  the  new  cow,"  she  said,  with 
fine  forgetfulness,  "  how'd  you  like  some  nice 
batter-cakes  fer  supper.  Gran 'pa?  I  c'n  afford 
th'  milk,  now." 

''  How'd  I  like  'em?  "  piped  Grandfather. 
"  Well,  you  jes'  fry  up  a  good  dish  of  'em, 
Mother,  an'  see  what '11  ketch  'em — once  I  git 
through  milkin'." 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  THE  OLD  ROAD 

'A  -LARGB  round  moon,  coloured  like  tlie  pale  wings 
of  the  butterflies,  floated  in  tlie  soft  rose  of  the 
eastern  sky  as  Milly  Orne  walked  swiftly  along 
the  road.  She  was  thinking  happily  of  the  two  old 
people  she  had  left  behind,  and  of  the  dun  cow, 
with  her  pretty  sleek  head  and  large  mild  eyes. 
Grandfather  would  be  milking  her  now.  She 
wished  she  might  have  waited  to  see  the  first  foam- 
ing pail  carried  into  the  kitchen.  But  there  was 
the  dinner  to  finish  and  serve.  Being  quick-witted 
and,  moreover,  of  an  acquisitive  mind,  Milly  had 
studiously  applied  herself  to  the  study  of  Miss 
Minerva  Eggleston's  old-fashioned  cook-book,  and 
thereby  learned  many  strange  combinations  and 
permutations  of  the  familiar  ''  potatoes  'n' 
meat  "  served  at  Innisfield  tables.  Cooking,  she 
had  learned,  was  a  science,  not  to  be  disdained  or 
thought  lightly  of;  and  since  the  strangers  she 
served  appeared  increasingly  appreciative  of  the 
fruits  of  her  newly  acquired  knowledge,  Milly  con- 
tinued to  study  and  experiment  with  ever  growing 
pleasure  in  her  work. 

She  was  thinking  doubtfully  of  a  certain  delicate 
pudding,  compounded  for  the  first  time,  and  at 

163 


164  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

present  awaiting  its  destined  hour  in  the  cool  se- 
clusion of  the  spring-room.  Had  she  beaten  the 
eggs  sufficiently,  she  wondered;  and  was  the 
meringue  which  topped  the  confection  overbrown?, 
She  stepped  daintily  about  the  edges  of  a 
puddle,  her  blue  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground,  when, 
as  once  before,  she  heard  the  swift  tread  of  hoofs 
behind  her  and  looked  back  to  meet  Walter  Hill's 
dark  gaze.  Mindful  of  her  freshly-starched  skirts 
and  the  threatening  mud-puddle,  Milly  hastily 
took  refuge  amid  the  leafy  growth  of  the  roadside 
till  the  rider  should  pass. 

But  the  young  man  pulled  his  horse  to  a  stand- 
still, and  slipped  from  his  saddle.  Milly  watched 
him  with  surprise  as  he  walked  toward  her,  the 
bay  horse  at  his  heels. 

''  You've  been  home?  "  he  asked,  his  face 
lighted  with  a  boyish  smile.  '^  Do  you  know  I 
thought  I  might  overtake  you?  " 

Milly  said  nothing,  being  vaguely  troubled  by 
his  presence  and  the  look  in  his  eyes. 

^'  I  happened  to  see  you  start  out  from  Crad- 
dock's,"  he  went  on,  easily.  "  How  did  my  lady 
Jersey  behave?    And  what  did  they  say  to  her?  '* 

*'  You  mean  Gran 'father  and  Gran 'mother?  '* 
inferred  Milly,  walking  very  fast,  her  eyes  on  the 
distant  glimmer  of  white  which  represented  the 
old  Eggleston  house.  ''  They — they  were  glad, 
of  course." 


ON  THE  OLD  EOAD  165 

He  put  out  Ms  hand  as  if  to  guide  her  past  a 
particularly  deep  puddle.  But  she  drew  back,  a 
quick  flush  staining  her  cheek. 

"  You  didn't  seem  to  be  looking,"  he  apologised. 
"  Another  instant  and  you'd  have  been  in  over 
your  shoe-tops,  you  know.  It — it's  rather  wet 
along  here,  in  spots." 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted,  coldly,  ''  but  I've  walked 
in  muddy  roads  all  my  life." 

He  studied  her  averted  face,  with  a  slight  cloud- 
ing of  his  dark  good  looks. 

"  What  have  I  done  that  you  won't  even  look 
at  me,  Milly?  "  he  asked,  after  a  lengthening 
pause.  ''  This  morning  you  were  as  jolly  as  could 
be,  only  you  wouldn't  let  me  beat  the  eggs." 

His  tone  was  slightly  aggrieved. 

'*  If  you  please,  Mr.  Hill,  I'd  rather  you 
wouldn't  wait  for  me,"  she  said,  determinedly. 
''I'm  late,  I  know,  but " 

"  You're  not  late,"  he  contradicted  her;  **  and 
besides,  it 's — beautiful !  Look  at  that  moon ;  will 
youf  .  .  .  It's — somehow,  like  you,  Milly — all 
soft  rose  and  pale  gold  and " 

The  girl  hurried  on  faster  than  before,  but  his 
long  stride  kept  him  abreast  of  her. 

''  Don't  be  angry,"  he  begged.  ''  That  bit  of 
foolishness  slipped  out  before  I  thought.  But — 
see  here;  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

She  shook  her  head. 

''  I  haven't  time  to  listen,"  she  objected. 


166  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

**  There's  no  real  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be 
friends." 

''  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said,  proudly.  ''  Be- 
sides, I  don 't  .wish  to  be  friends  with  you.  It  is 
absurd  even  to  speak  of  it." 

''  But,  why?  "  he  urged.  "Is  it  because  I — • 
because  of  Sylvia?  Can't  a  man  have  friends, 
even  if " 

''It's  —  because  of  everything.  .  .  .  You 
oughtn't  to  be  talking  to  me  at  all.  Mrs.  Hill 
would  be  displeased." 

His  face  had  grown  suddenly  dark. 

*'  Granted  that  we  cannot  be  friends,"  he  said, 
doggedly,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  one  thing.  I 
was  on  the  point  of  bolting,  when  you  came.  I 
couldn't  have  stood  it  another  day.  .  .  .  Oh,  you 
don't  know!    Don't  judge  me — not  knowing " 

She  was  looking  at  him,  her  blue  eyes  wide  with 
unconcealed  scorn. 

' '  You  are  telling  me  you  would  have  left  your 
wife — and  your  mother,  alone  in  that  lonely 
house?  " 

' '  Oh,  I  suppose  I  should  have  come  back.  .  .  . 
Don't  look  at  me  that  way,  Milly;  I'm  not  as  bad 
as  you  think. ' ' 

"  Have  you  no — pity?  "  she  asked,  her  voice 
breaking  a  little.    "  No — ^love?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  sullenly.  "  That's  why  I'm 
here.  But  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  going  to  be 
like.  ..." 


ON  THE  OLD  KOAD  167 

He  shook  Ms  head,  his  brows  knit  over  gloomy 
eyes. 

''No;  I  swear  I  didn't  grasp  the  situation. 
How  could  I"?  .  .  .  "Well,  you  saved  the  day, 
Milly,  whether  you  meant  to,  or  not.  I  didn  't  bolt ; 
and  for  your  sake  I  won't.    I'll  stick  it  out,  even 

if  Sylvia But  I  mustn't  speak  to  you  of  her. 

lYou  wouldn't  understand.    You  couldn't.  ..." 

She  turned  and  faced  him  with  sudden  courage. 

"  Why  don't  you  stay  with  her  more!  "  she 
demanded.  ' '  Surely  you  ought  to  be  able  to  com- 
fort her — help  her  as  no  one  else  can." 

''  It's  entirely  natural  you  should  think  so,"  he 
admitted,  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  tone.  "  But 
— Sylvia  doesn't  happen  to  want  me.  My  presence 
irritates  her.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  marriage  of 
convenience — which  is  no  marriage  at  all!  " 

His  short  laugh  held  no  mirth. 

"  I  can't  expect  you  to  be  sorry  for  me,"  he 
went  on,  in  face  of  her  troubled  silence.  ' '  I  don 't 
ask  it.  But — sometime  I  may  be  able  to  explain. 
Till  that  hour  comes,  promise  me  you  will,  at 
least,  give  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Don't  pass 
sentence — in  the  dark. ' ' 

Her  candid  eyes  searched  his  face  swiftly.  If 
she  read  truth  there  and  a  desperate  struggle  with 
some  unknown  emotion,  the  girl  made  no  sigm 
She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  her  face  with  its 
delicate  pure  outlines  pale  in  the  softly  lighted 
dusk. 


168  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

' '  I  certainly  have  no  right  to  judge  you,  or  any- 
one, harshly,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  If  I  seem  to 
have  done  so — forgive  me. ' ' 

He  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her,  as  she  went 
swiftly  from  him  into  the  gathering  night.  As 
she  fled  up  the  long  drive  she  heard  the  thud  of 
hoofs  growing  fainter  on  the  road  below. 

Mrs.  Hill's  large  presence  confronted  the  girl  at 
the  door  of  the  kitchen. 

"  You  are  late,"  she  said,  with  a  rebuking 
glance  at  the  clock.  ' '  I  had  begun  to  wonder  if  I 
must  prepare  the  dinner  myself." 

''  I  am — very  sorry,"  Milly  apologised,  quite 
breathless  with  haste  and  the  shock  of  her  late 
encounter. 

'^  Where  have  you  been?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Hill, 
darting  a  quick  look  into  the  luminous  dusk  with- 
out. 

Milly,  somewhat  accustomed  by  now  to  her  mis- 
tress' sharp,  incisive  questions,  answered  without 
embarrassment. 

^'  Did  you  see  no  one  besides  your  grand- 
parents? " 

The  girl  hesitated  for  the  space  of  a  frightened 
heart-beat  or  two. 

''  I  saw — Mr.  Hill,"  she  murmured,  her  eyes 
intent  upon  the  potatoes  she  had  hurriedly  begun 
to  peel. 

''  You  saw  Mr.  Hill?  .    .    .  Where?  " 

*'  On  the  road,  as  I  was  coming  home." 


ON  THE  OLD  ROAD  169 

**  Do  you  mean  he  passed  youf  I  haven't  heard 
him  come  in." 

The  girl  was  conscious  of  the  woman's  probing 
eyes  upon  her  face. 

"  I — I  think  he  went  by  the  other  road,"  she 

stammered.     "  The — moon It  is  very  light 

and  pleasant  out  of  doors." 

Her  hands  shook  over  their  task. 

Mrs.  Hill's  mouth  twisted  in  a  wry  smile. 

*'  So  I  see,"  she  said,  dryly.  She  stood  for  a 
moment,  watching  the  girl 's  nervous  fingers  with 
cold  interest. 

"  You  may  serve  dinner,"  she  ordered, 
*'  as  soon  as  possible.  We  will  not  wait  for  Mr. 
Hill." 

Milly  heard  the  retreating  rustle  of  her  gown 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  But  when  she  ventured  to 
lift  her  abashed  eyes,  she  was  startled  to  see  the 
tall  stout  figure  standing  motionless  by  the  door, 
as  if  lost  in  deep  thought. 

*'  You  are  a  very  pretty  girl,"  Mrs.  Hill  ob- 
served harshly.  ' '  Quite  unusually  so  for  a  person 
of  your  class.  But  let  me  remind  you  that  your 
position  in  my  house  depends  entirely  upon  your 
discretion.    You  understand  me,  I  am  sure." 

The  leaping  colour  in  Milly 's  face  and  the  in- 
dignant flash  of  her  blue  eyes  appeared  to  satisfy 
the  woman.  Checking  with  an  imperious  gesture 
the  girl 's  half-uttered  exclamation,  she  swept  from 
the  room. 


170  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Left  to  herself,  Milly  Orne  dropped  her  knife 
and  started  toward  the  door. 

"  I  will  not  stay  in  this  house,"  she  told  herself, 
with  sudden  passion.    '*  I  will  go  home!  " 

There  would  be  a  joyful  welcome  awaiting  her 
there,  she  knew.  But  how  explain  her  nnlooked- 
for  change  of  mind?  And  the  leaky  old  roof — 
Only  this  afternoon  she  had  thought  happily  of 
the  heavy  rains  sure  to  come  in  late  autumn,  and 
of  the  tight  new  shingles  which  would  shelter  the 
two  ailing  old  people. 

Slowly  she  walked  back  to  the  table ;  slowly  took 
up  her  knife  and  went  on  peeling  the  potatoes. 
Afar  off,  echoing  from  some  distant  fold  of  the 
hills,  came  the  rhythmic  beat  of  a  galloping  horse. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MALVINA  BENNETT  POINTS  A  MORAL 

Miss  MAL\^JsrA  Bennett  transferred  a  pin  from 
her  mouth  to  the  heart-shaped  cushion  on  the  front 
of  her  gown  with  a  quick,  darting  motion  of  her 
right  hand,  while  with  her  left  she  gently  pro- 
pelled the  lady  she  was  fitting  to  a  proper  position 
before  the  mirror. 

''  There  now,  Mis'  Salter,"  cried  the  little 
dressmaker,  ' '  how  d '  you  like  the  set  o '  that 
waist?  Ain't  that  Mas  drape  over  the  left 
shoulder  stylish?  It's  th'  very  latest  from 
Paris!  " 

Mrs.  Salter  was  a  thin,  stooped  woman,  with  a 
lavender-tinted  complexion,  lightly  shaded  with 
red  about  the  tip  of  her  pinched  nose  and  the 
edges  of  her  sparsely-furnished  eyelids.  She 
sighed  heavily  as  she  surveyed  the  inchoate  gar- 
ment she  was  wearing. 

*'  Seems  t'  me,"  she  murmured,  ^'  the's  a 
pucker,  right  under  the  left  shoulder-blade." 

"  Course  the'  is,"  confirmed  Miss  Bennett,  with 
professional  superiority.  ^'  I  ain't  put  no  paddin* 
in  there  yet.  Y'  see,  you  holler  right  in  where 
some  folks  bulges  out." 

' '  I  know  I  do, "  acknowledged  Mrs.  Salter,  with 

171 


172  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

mournful  pride.  ''  I  ain't  got  no  lung  t'  speak 
of  on  that  side.  Ain't  had  fer  years  an'  years; 
the  doctor  says  it's  a  per  fee'  mericle  I've  lived  's 
long  's  I  have." 

"  'Tis  wonderful,"  chirped  Miss  Bennett,  her 
head,  with  its  second-best  false  front,  very  much 
to  one  side.  ''  Anyway,  you've  lasted  out  lots  o' 
big  strong-lookin'  folks,  I  c'd  name.  .  .  .  Say, 
I'm  a-goin'  t'  drape  the  skirt,  back  an'  front  like 
they  make  'em  this  year.  It's  awful  becomin'  t' 
thin  folks.  Rutland!  I  do  hope  reg'lar  bunched 
overskirts  ain't  comin'  in  ag'in.  I  ust  t'  pretty 
nigh  go  crazy  over  some  o'  th'  goods  that  come 
in  th'  shop — gettin'  'em  t'  loop  jes'  so — talk  about 
loopin'  the  loop!  .  .  .  An'  basques  with  eight 
seams  in  back,  all  boned!  R 'member  how  we  ust 
t'  make  'em.  Mis'  Salter?  I'd  jes'  got  ont'  a 
secret  way  o'  shapin'  th'  darts  in  front  when — 
pouf ! — they  went  out  o'  style,  like  you'd  blow  out 
a  candle.  .  .  .  Jes'  a  second,  Mis'  Salter,  till  I 
stick  a  pin  in  under  the  arm  an'  cut  out  th'  neck 
a  mite.  .  .  .  Yes,  low  necks  is  goin'  t'  be  wore 
this  season,  an' elbow  sleeves.  .  .  .  I '11  make 'em 
that  way,  if  you  say  so.  But  don't  you  think — 
seein'  you're  so  kind  o'  boney " 

' '  Anyway,  my  bones  is  small, ' '  said  Mrs.  Salter, 
with  an  acrimonious  sniff.  '^  'N'  that's  more'n 
some  folks  c'n  say." 

*'  So  they  be — awful  small  an'  delicate,"  con- 
ceded Miss  Bennett,  soothingly.    "  I  hardly  ever 


MALVINA  POINTS  A  MORAL        173 

fit  anybody  with  your  waist-measure.  There !  now 
I'll  git  you  out  o'  this,  right  off." 

Mrs.  Salter  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  dismal 
moan. 

* '  You  got  it  off  me  jest  in  time,  Malvina, ' '  she 
announced,  weakly.  *'  One  minute  more  'n'  I'd 
a-keeled  right  over!  Now  when  c'n  I  expect  this 
dress?  I'm  in  kind  of  a  hurry,  because  Mr.  Sal- 
ter's first  wife's  aunt  is  comin'  t'  visit,  an'  of 
course  I  want  t'  look  nice  fer  her." 

Miss  Bennett  was  setting  long  basting  stitches, 
her  thin  lips  puckered  over  a  mouthful  of  pins. 

*'  Le'  me  see,"  she  mumbled,  a  glint  of  antici- 
patory joy  in  her  eyes.  "  T '-morrow  I'm  goin* 
out  t'  sew.  I  hadn't  any  idee  o'  doin'  sech  a 
thing.  Es  a  rule,  I  only  take  in;  but  t'  accommy- 
date " 

'*  Well,  I  want  t'  know,"  commented  Mrs.  Sal- 
ter, acidly.  "  An'  me  a-trudgin'  over  here  t'  be 
fitted,  with  my  weak  heart " 

*'  It  come  b'  letter,  in  th'  mail,"  Miss  Bennett 
went  on,  pausing  to  restore  the  pins  to  her  cushion 
in  full  enjoyment  of  the  dramatic  interval. 

''  Well;  you  was  sayin'  it  come  in  th'  mail,'* 
prompted  Mrs.  Salter,  with  a  hacking  cough,  in- 
dicative of  suppressed  exasperation. 

*'  You  c'd  'a'  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather!  "  stated  Miss  Bennett,  searching  busily 
among  the  properties  on  her  table.  .  .  .  "  Did 
you  bring  over  any  hooks- 'n '-eyes,  Mis'  Salter!  " 


174  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

"  Yes,  I  did;  a  full  card.  They  was  the  new 
kind  you  can't  undo  unless  you  try  real  hard." 

'  '■  Oh,  yes ;  here  they  be.  .  .  .  But  the '  seems 
t'  be  two  gone." 

Mrs.  Salter  pinned  her  collar  with  an  indignant 
glance  at  the  dressmaker. 

'■ '  It  was  a  full  card, ' '  she  repeated,  ' '  right  out 
th'  store." 

'*  Oh,  I  r 'member;  I  sewed  two  of  'em  on  your 
waist  a 'ready.  Now  le'  me  see;  I'll  work  on  your 
dress  t'-day — ^when  I  ain't  busy  with  fittin's.  .  .  . 
Mis'  Eeveren'  Pettibone's  comin'  in  this  aft 'noon. 
She's  b'en  there  o'  course;  so  she  c'n  tell  me.  I 
always  hate  t'  sew  fer  strangers,  unless  I  know 
somethin'  'bout  'em,  good  er  bad." 

Mrs.  Salter  put  on  her  hat,  jabbing  home  the 
large  rhinestone  pins  with  the  effect  of  skewers. 

'^  Who  under  th'  canopy  be  you  talkin'  about, 
Malvina  Bennett?  "  she  inquired,  with  acrimony. 
**  You  run  on  so  kind  of  wild  an'  ramblin'  a  body 
might  think  you  was  losin'  your  mind." 

Miss  Bennett  smiled  complacently,  but  her  black 
eyes  snapped. 

*'  Oh,  I  guess  I  got  my  faculties,  all  right,"  she 
said,  demurely.  ''  But  speakin'  o'  crazy  folks; 
hev  you  beared  whether  the  woman  that  lives  up 
to  th'  old  Eggleston  place  is  in  her  right  mind? 
I  dunno  's  I'd  want  t'  go,  if " 

"  My  grief!    You  ain't  goin'  there  t'  sew?  " 


MALVINA  POINTS  A  MORAL        175 

'*  M-m-huh,"  murmured  Miss  Bennett,  rendered 
once  more  temporarily  speechless  with  pins. 

Mrs.  Salter  gently  chafed  the  end  of  her  thin 
nose  with  a  highly-starched  and  perfumed  pocket 
handkerchief,  which  she  slowly  unfolded  from  a 
rigid  blue-white  square. 

"  Well,  of  course,  Mr.  Salter  hes  been  goin'  up 
there  reg'lar  ever  sence  they  come,  so  I  don't 
s'pose  the's  anybody  in  town  knows  any  more 
about  'em  'an  I  do,  when  it  comes  t'  that." 

^'  M-m-m?  "  interrogated  Miss  Bennett,  gazing 
at  her  customer  over  the  top  of  her  spectacles. 

"  They  buy  quite  a  bill  o'  groceries  every 
week,"  pursued  Mrs.  Salter,  moving  toward  the 
door.  '^  Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  going  now.  When 
you  git  my  dress  done " 

"  Don't  be  in  sech  a  hurry,  Mis'  Salter,  I  was 
goin'  t'  tell  you,  you'll  hev  t'  come  in  th'  last 
o'  th'  week  t'  try  on  that  waist  ag'in  after  I 
put  in  th'  paddin'.  A  mite  too  much  or  too 
little  makes  an  awful  sight  o'  difference  in  th' 
set." 

"  I  s'pose  you've  heard  Milly  Orne's  helpin'  out 
up  there  t'  th'  farm?  "  vouchsafed  Mrs.  Salter, 
her  hand  on  the  door.  "  They  treat  her  like  a 
common  hired-girl;  Obed  says,  she  eats  off  the 
kitchen-table.    Ef  I  was  you,  I 'd ' ' 

^'  You  don't  hev  t'  worry  none  about  her,'* 
chirped  Miss  Bennett.  "Me  'n'  Milly  gits  along 
first  rate.    Th'  ain't  a  nicer  girl  in  this  town." 


176  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

*'  Well,  you'll  find  Milly  Orne  won't  hev  nothin* 
t'  say  'bout  th'  folks  she  works  for,"  sniffed  Mrs. 
Salter.  ''  She  ain't  hardly  said  aye,  yes  er  no  t' 
Mr.  Salter,  fer  all  he  goes  there  s'  constant,  an' 
him  takin'  an  int'rest,  an'  like  that.  But  Obed  he 
ain't  no  kind  of  hand  t'  notice  what  folks  wear. 
*  Can't  you  tell  me!  '  I  sez,  patient,  '  what  Mis' 
Hill  had  on  when  she  come  out  in  th'  kitchen  t' 
giv*  you  th'  order?  '  'N'  Obed,  he  shakes  his 
head.  '  I  think  it  was  somethin'  kind  o'  drab,'  he 
sez,  uncertain, '  with  white  on  it,  er  black — I  disre- 
member  which.'  But  the'  was  one  thing  he  did 
take  notice  of;  the  young  lady  give  him  a  letter  t' 
mail  last  Monday,  jes'  's  he  was  goin'  out  the  gate. 
She  was  standin'  there,  hid  b'hind  a  big  bush 
waitin'  fer  him  t'  come  out.  Obed  says  her  eyes 
was  big  an'  scared-lookin',  an'  she  kep'  a-twistin' 
her  head  back  toward  th'  house,  's  if  she  expected 
somebody  might  be  lookin'." 

' '  Did  he  take  the  letter  ?  '  'inquired  Miss  Ben- 
nett, with  breathless  interest. 

' '  Yes ;  he  did.  But  no  sooner  had  he  driv '  out 
the  gate,  with  the  letter  in  his  pocket  'an  he  heard 
somebody  a-hollerin'  after  him.  It  was  Mis' 
Hill.  She's  kind  of  fleshy,  Obed  says,  but  fer  all 
that  she  run  like  a  deer.  '  I  f ergot  somethin',' 
she  says,  pantin'  like  she'd  hev  a  stroke.  It  was  a 
bottle  of  some  queer  kind  of  sauce.  They  certainly 
do  eat  the  most  outlandish  vittles.  I  don't  see  how 
Milly  Orne  c'n  do  their  cookin'." 


MALVINA  POINTS  A  MORAL        177 

*'  Well?  "murmured  Miss  Bennett,  with  a  touch 
of  impatience. 

Mrs.  Salter  sucked  in  her  thin  lips  with  an  air  of 
virtuous  reserve.  "  I  guess  I'd  better  say  no 
more.  It  ain't  none  o'  our  business,  es  Obed  says, 
if  she  did  want  t'  git  the  letter  back." 

''  But  the' can't  nobody  help  takin'  an  int'rest," 
broke  in  the  little  dressmaker,  eagerly.  "  The's 
one  thing  about  me,  I  don 't  never  gossip.  Es  I  tell 
Mother,  I  won't  hev  no  gossipin'  in  my  shop.  But 
the's  a  big  differ 'nee  b 'tween  gossipin'  malicious 
an '  takin '  a  deep  int  'rest  in  folks.  A  body  might 's 
well  be  a  buried  corp,  an'  done  with  it,  ef  we  didn't 
open  our  mouths  t'  say  a  word." 

*'  That's  th'  way  I  feel,"  approved  the  grocer's 
wife.  '*  Well,  what  she'd  really  come  after  was 
that  letter.  She  smiled  pleasant,  'n'  told  Obed  it 
wa'n't  directed  right,  so  she'd  take  it  up  t'  the 
house  an'  fix  't.  He  couldn't  do  nothin'  but  give 
it  to  her,  of  course." 

"  Who  was  it  d'rected  to?  "  breathed  the  little 
dressmaker. 

'*  I  wish  't  I  c'd  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Salter, 
resentfully.  ''  Ef  it'd  been  me,  I'd  'a'  seen  t' 
that  b'fore  I  put  th'  letter  in  my  pocket.  But 
Obed,  he  said  he  was  figgerin'  on  lookin'  at  it  keer- 
ful  after  he'd  got  out  o'  sight  o'  th'  house.  Ain't 
that  jes'  like  a  man?  " 

''  Eggs-ac'Iy!  "  agreed  Miss  Bennett,  warmly. 
''  Well,  ef  she  was  to  ask  me  t'  mail  a  letter,  I'd 


178  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

pr'tend  I'd  lost  it,  afore  I'd  give  it  up.  I  dunno 
why  but  I  always  feel  like  takin'  tli'  part  o'  th' 
young  folks.  Mebbe  it's  because  I  feel  young 
inside,  fer  all  I  lost  m'  teeth  an'  most  o'  m' 
hair. ' ' 

''  You  might  mention  casual  you'd  pass  the 
post-office  on  th'  way  home,"  suggested  Mrs.  Sal- 
ter. ''  But  don't,  fer  mercy'  sake,  let  on  I  told 
you.  She  might  lay  it  t'  me  an'  stop  orderin'  off 
Obed." 

'^  You  don't  hev  to  worry  none.  I  guess  I'd 
ought  t'  know  how  t'  manage  all  kin's  o'  folks  b' 
now.  Seems  's  'o'  men  an'  women  ain't  no  differ- 
'nt  from  hooks  'n'  eyes;  often  an'  often  I've 
thought  about  it,  settin'  here  alone  in  m'  shop. 
You  got  t'  know  how  t'  match  'em  up  right,  fer  one 
thing, — 'n'  it  doos  seem  's  'o'  th'  Lord  made  mis- 
takes that-a-Avay;  puttin'  two  hooks  op 'site  'at 
won't  gibe,  n'  matter  what  you  do;  'r  else  sewin' 
on  an  eye  two  sizes  too  big  fer  the  hook,  er " 

■Mrs.  Salter  tossed  her  head,  \^ith  matronly 
arrogance. 

"  I  s'pose  an  unmarried  female  does  git  queer 
notions,  a-livin'  alone  s'  constant,"  she  said,  as 
she  opened  the  door.  "  But  th'  can't  nobody  un- 
derstand men-folks,  'nless  they're  married  t'  one 
of  'em." 

''  I  thank  th'  Lord  I  ain't,  every  night  o'  my  life, 
on  bended  knee !  "  retaliated  the  little  dressmaker, 
with  spirit.    *'  When  I  look  'round  this  'ere  town 


MALVINA  POINTS  A  MORAL        179 

an'  see  the  poor,  speritless  critters,  some  of  'em 
actn'ly  drove  t'  drink  b'  their  wives,  an'  others  of 
'em  not  earnin'  th'  vittles  they  put  in  their 
months " 

But  Mrs.  Salter  was  already  halfway  to  the 
gate,  her  rasped  nose  uplifted  to  an  outraged 
heaven. 

Miss  Bennett  stood  on  her  door-step  with  a 
pleasing  sense  of  victory,  her  faded  eyes  roving 
up  and  down  the  quiet  street.  It  was  pleasant  out 
of  doors.  For  an  instant  she  considered  the 
project  of  bringing  her  sewing  down  to  the  front 
stoop  for  the  afternoon,  only  to  abandon  it  with 
a  sigh.  There  was  her  neuralgia  for  one  thing,  so 
inalienable  a  possession  that  Miss  Bennett  was 
wont  to  speak  of  it  with  pride,  as  if  she  had 
bought  and  paid  for  it.  She  did  things  on  accoimt 
of  her  neuralgia,  and  omitted  others,  for  the  same 
cogent  reason.  The  warm  breeze,  which  shook 
faint  fragrance  from  the  old-fashioned  white  roses 
in  Miss  Bennett's  front  yard,  lifted  wisps  of  the 
second-best  false  front  from  off  her  wrinkled  fore- 
head with  terrifying  boldness. 

''  If  I  was  t'  set  in  this  breeze,"  she  cogitated, 
**  m'  neuralgia  'd  git  right  up  on  its  year;  'n'  I 
wouldn't  sleep  a  wink  with  it  t '-night.  Th'  closter 
I  keep  it,  th'  better  'tis." 

As  she  reached  this  sacrificial  conclusion  her 
eyes  lighted  upon  her  erstwhile  neighbour,  Philura 
Pettibone,  walking  swiftly  down  the  street.    Miss 


180  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Bennett  remarked  the  ' '  set  "  of  her  blue  foulard 
with  professional  interest. 

*'  I  never  done  a  better  job,"  she  told  herself. 
"  But  it's  out  o'  style,  somethin'  scandalous." 

The  minister's  wife  unlatched  the  gate,  smiling 
a  greeting  over  its  top  at  the  dressmaker.  Her 
cheeks  were  pinker  than  the  faded  rose  in  her  hat 
and  her  blue  eyes  had  a  sort  of  glorified  shine. 

"I'm  late,  I  know,"  she  said,  as  she  mounted 
the  steps,  *'  but  Mrs.  Puffer  and  Mrs.  Beels  came 
to  see  me  this  afternoon  and  brought  all  the  chil- 
dren." 

"  Fer  th'  land  sake! — not  th'  Puffer  twins  'n* 
all,  I  sh'd  hope?  Was  it  Mis'  Undertaker  Beels 
or  her- 'twas- Jane  Bascom?  Both  of  'em's  got 
plenty  o'  childern." 

**  It  was  Jane  Bascom,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
"  Oh,  Malvina !  have  you  seen  her  littlest  baby?  " 

''Me?  No.  I  ain't,"  sniffed  Miss  Bennett. 
*'  Jane  bought  her  last  dress  ready-made.  She 
hed  th'  nerve  t'  stop  me  right  in  th'  street — her 
a-wearin'  th'  dress — an'  tell  me  she  didn't  hev  no 
time  fer  gittin'  a  dress  made.  She  said  Sam  Beels 
bought  it  for  her  in  th'  city,  b'fore  she  was  up  'n* 
around.  *  It  looks  like  it,'  I  sez, — jes'  like  that,  I 
sez — castin'  my  eye  down  at  the  hang  o'  th'  skirt. 
*  Well,  if  you're  satisfied,'  I  sez  .    .    .  " 

*'  The  baby's  a  girl,"  murmured  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone, softly. 

' '  Huh !  ' '  commented  Miss  Bennett.    "  So 's  all 


MALVINA  POINTS  A  MORAL        181 

her  others,  ain't  they?  How  many's  she  got 
now?  " 

"  Five;  they're  all  pretty  children. — You  re- 
member how  pretty  Jane  used  to  be,  Malvina? 
But  the  littlest  baby  .  .  .  She  let  me  hold 
it.  ..." 

Miss  Bennett  surveyed  her  pastor's  wife  with 
puzzled  interest. 

'^  I  didn't  know  you  was  s'  fond  of  childern, 
Philura, ' '  she  said,  wonderingly.  ' '  There !  I  went 
an'  f ergot  ag'in.  Now  'at  you're  Miss  Rev'ren' 
Pettibone  I'd  ought  t'  r 'member  t'  call  you  b'  that 
name.  The '  ain  't  no  tellin '  how  long  you  '11  hev  it. ' ' 

Mrs.  Pettibone  looked  startled,  and  the  pink 
faded  a  little  in  her  thin  cheeks. 

* '  Why  what — what  do  you  mean,  Malvina  ?  ' ' 

Miss  Bennett  turned  and  began  the  ascent  of  the 
narrow  stair. 

"  I  can't  stan'  out  here  no  longer  in  this  wind, 
with  m'  neuralgia,"  she  said,  over  her  shoulder. 
''  Come  right  on  up;  your  waist's  all  basted  an' 
ready  t'  try  on." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  did  not  repeat  her  question ;  but 
her  face  still  wore  a  troubled  look  as  she  obedi- 
ently surveyed  her  small  figure  in  Miss  Bennett's 
mirror. 

**  Now  don't  you  go  t'  worryin'  'bout  what  I 
said,"  advised  Miss  Bennett,  as  she  pinned  in  a 
sleeve.    ' '  I  dunno  what  p  'sessed  me ;  but  you  kind 


182  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

o'  put  me  in  mind  o'  your  lius 'ban's  first  wife,  jes* 
f er  a  minute. ' ' 

**  I — ^put  you  in  mind " 

**  Oh,  you  don't  look  none  like  th'  first  Mis* 
Pettibone — no  more'n  I  do.  'N'  I  guess  I'd 
oughtn't  t'  name  her  to  you,  anyhow." 

< '  Why  not  ?  ' '  asked  the  second  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
in  a  small,  weak  voice.  "  Why  shouldn't  you 
speak  of  her — to  me?  " 

'*  Oh,  I  dunno.  Some  folks  don't  like  t'  think 
the'  was  anybody  b'fore  'em;  like  an  ostridge 
stickin'  their  heads  in  the  sand,  I  say.  I  r 'mem- 
ber Mis'  Gus  Bogert,  she-'twas-Emiline  Post. 
Em 'line  was  his  third.  When  she  was  first  mar- 
ried she  went  'round  the  house  sly,  huntin'  up 
all  the  photos  of  th'  other  two,  an'  fas'  's  she 
found  'em  she  burnt  'em  up  in  th'  kitchen  stove. 
Gus,  he'd  had  a  big  crayon  portrait  of  his  first 
wife  made  an'  hung  up  in  th'  parlour;  an'  the 
secon'  Mis'  Bogert — she-'twas-Minnie  Fisher — 
left  it  hangin'  right  over  the  sofy  all  durin'  her 
time.  But  Em 'line  took  it  down  when  Gus  was  off 
on  one  o'  his  trips.  She  didn't  das  t'  burn  it;  but 
she  put  it  up  in  th'  attic,  way  in  under  th'  eaves, 
an'  hung  up  in  place  of  it  a  real  nice  premium 
pictur'  she'd  got  fer  soap-wrappers.  It  was  of  a 
lady,  I  r 'member,  drest  in  red,  low-neck-an '-short- 
sleeves,  lookin'  roguish  t'  one  side  of  a  big  black 
fan.  'Twas  real  han'some,  'n'  a  sight  cheerfuller 
'n'  th'  crayon  pictur'  o'  th'  first  Mis'  Bogert. 


MALVINA  POINTS  A  MORAL        183 

Well,  purty  soon,  back  comes  Gus  f'om  Ms  trip 
an'  marches  in  tli'  parlour,  with  Em 'line  taggin' 
b'hind,  s'  nervous  she  didn't  know  which  f'om 
tother.  Gus  looks  'round  casual  an'  takes  out  his 
pipe  an'  fills  it — Em 'line  watchin'  him  like  a  cat 
would  a  mouse.  '  Seem  good  t'  git  home,  Gus?  ' 
sez  she,  innercent.  '  You  bet,'  sez  he;  an'  sets 
down  in  th'  patent  rocker  an'  begins  smokin'  his 
pipe.  Bimeby,  he  sez,  soft,  like  he  was  speakin' 
t'  hisself,  '  I  never  knowed  what  I  lost  when  I 
buried  th'  first  Mis'  Bogert;'  an'  he  sighs  heavy, 
lookin'  up  at  th'  pictur'  o'  th'  lady  in  th'  red 
dress.  '  She  certainly  was  the  han'somest  o'  th' 
three!  '  he  sez,  thoughtful;  'an'  th'  wa'n't  a 
selfish  hair  in  her  head.'  .  .  .  Now,  Mis'  Petti- 
bone,  ef  you'll  take  this  waist  off  an'  put  a  shawl 
'round  you  fer  jest  a  minute,  I'll  stitch  up  the 
seams  an'  give  it  another  try-on,  then  you  won't 
hev  t' come  ag'in.  .  .  .  Well,  Em 'line,  she  stood 
it  fer  jes'  three  days.  Every  time  Gus  come  in  th' 
house  he'd  go  an'  stan'  mournful  in  front  o'  th' 
pictur'  of  the  lady  in  th'  red  low-neck-an '-short- 
sleeve  dress.  She  hed  beaut 'ful  neck  an'  arms, 
white  an'  round,  an'  a  little  more  ^howin'  than 
ought  t'  b'  rights,  while  Em'line  was  dark  com- 
plected an'  hed  all  her  dress- waists  padded  out  t' 
make  'em  look  anyhow.  .  .  .  Good  land!  did  I 
stick  you  with  a  pin  ?  I  'd  ought  t '  be  more  keerf ul. 
Now  you  set  right  down,  Philura,  an'  look  at  the 
fashions.    I  won't  be  a  minute." 


184  THE  HEAET  OF  PPIILURA 

The  sound  of  the  sewing-machine  driven  at 
furious  speed  filled  the  silence  while  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone  gazed  unseeingly  at  the  picture  of  a  very 
tall,  pink  and  white  lady  in  a  low-necked  gown. 
She  was  seeing,  instead,  an  old-fashioned  photo- 
graph of  a  woman,  with  sweet,  wistful  eyes,  and  a 
full  curl  of  dark  hair  lying  softly  across  her  round 
white  neck. 

"  There!  "  said  Miss  Bennett,  snapping  off  the 
threads.  *'  Now  I'll  slip  this  on  an'  see  how  'tis. 
.  .  .  You  don 't  seem  t '  gain  much  flesh.  Mis '  Pet- 
tibone,  'n'  ef  you  don't  mind  I'm  goin'  V  slip  in 
jest  a  mite  o' cotton  under  the  linin'.  .  .  .  You'd 
ruther  not  ?  Oh,  all  right,  I  c'n  loosen  up  th'  goods 
an'  put  a  draped  fichu  across  th'  front.  They're 
wearin'  'em  this  season,  'n'  they're  a  real  god- 
send t'  thin  folks,  like  you  an'  Em 'line  Bogert. 
.  .  .  An' that  puts  me  in  mind;  I  didn't  tell  you 
what  Em 'line  done  about  th'  pictur' ;  did  If  Well, 
as  I  was  sayin',  she  stood  it  fer  three  long  days; 
then  one  mornin'  when  Gus  was  t'  th'  store  she 
took  down  th'  pictur'  o'  th'  beautiful  lady  with  th' 
black  fan — she'd  come  t'  hate  it  b'  now — an'  took 
it  up  t'  th'  attic  and  shoved  it  way  back  in  under 
th '  eaves.  But  the  crayon  portrait  o '  th '  first  Mis ' 
Bogert  she  carried  downstairs  'n'  washed  its  glass 
keerful  and  hung  it  up  over  th'  sofy.  She  told 
me  afterwards — when  I  was  there  makin'  up  her 
mournin'  for  Gus,  it  looked  real  good  t'  see  it 
there.     Sez  she,  earnest, '  I  never  knowed  th'  first 


MALVINA  POINTS  A  MORAL        185 

Mis'  Bogert;  but  I  felt  like  she  was  a  sister.'  'N' 
come  t'  look,  the  pictur'  wa'n't  s'  differ 'nt  f'om 
Em 'line  herself,  bein'  dark  complected  an'  flat- 
chested,  'n'  like  that,  with  her  hair  done  up  on  top 
an'  hairpin  frizzes.  Em 'line  never  took  it  down 
no  more,  'xcept  at  house-cleanin'  time.  'N'  at 
Gus'  funeral  some  of  us  noticed  she'd  put  a  wreath 
o'  white  everlastin's  on  th'  frame."  .    .    . 

The  minister's  wife  had  already  reached  the 
gate  when  she  paused,  aware  of  the  patter  of  Miss 
Bennett's  slippered  feet  in  swift  pursuit. 

''  Land!  ef  I  didn't  ferget  t'  ask  you  'bout  them 
folks  up  t'  th'  Eggleston  place,"  said  the  little 
dressmaker,  ''  'n'  I  hed  it  in  mind,  special;  but 
speakin'  of  the  third  Mis'  Bogert  sort  o'  shoved 
it  back,  like  you  will  a  paper  pattern  when  you're 
lookin'  fer  somethin'  else  in  the  bureau  drawer!  " 

But  Mrs.  Pettibone  appeared  unable  to  add  to 
Miss  Bennett's  meagre  store  of  information. 

"  D'  you  mean  t'  tell  me,  Philura  Eice,  'at  you 
don't  know  't  all  what  kind  o'  folks  they  be?  " 
cross-questioned  Miss  Bennett,  sternly,  "an'  you 
a-goin'  there  twict,  a 'ready*?  You  must  'a' 
noticed  somethin';  ef  they're  real  dressy  folks — 
them  that  has  silk  linin's  to  their  every-day 
clo'es,  an'  like  that;  or  ef  they're  the  sort  that 
wears  ready-mades  fer  best. ' ' 

Mrs.  Pettibone  considered  gravely,  her  hand  on 
the  gate. 

*'  Mrs.  Hill  impressed  me  as  being  a  person  of 


186  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

means,  and — yes,  education, ' '  slie  said,  with  digni- 
fied reserve. 

*'  Well?  "  prompted  Miss  Bennett,  easting  her 
apron  over  her  head  in  tardy  recognition  of  her 
neuralgia.  *'  Shall  I  wear  m'  best  hair-front  an' 
m'  black  Henrietta  for  'em,  er  put  on  m'  ol' 
brown?  " 

' '  They  're  not — very  social ,  people,  I  should 
say,"  hesitated  Mrs.  Pettibone,  at  a  loss  to  inter- 
pret Miss  Bennett's  question. 

"  Huh !  stuck  up  an'  proud,"  inferred  the  dress- 
maker. ^'  Jes'  th'  same,  I  shall  wear  m'  Sunday- 
go-t'-meetin's.  Let  'em  know  first  off  I'm  full 
es  good  es  they  be,  ef  I  do  sew  fer  a  livin'.  I  c'n 
pertect  m'  Henrietta  with  an  apron;  'n'  I  don't 
keer  ef  it  takes  a  week  t'  pick  th'  threads  off." 

And  with  that  she  turned  and  marched  into  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHERE  IS  SYLVIA? 

MiLLY  Orne  opened  the  front  door  of  the  old  Eg- 
gieston  house  to  Miss  Bennett's  ring  early  the 
next  morning.  The  girl  looked  very  fresh  and 
rosy  as  she  smiled  a  discreet  welcome. 

"  You  are  to  come  right  upstairs,"  she  said, 
interrupting  Miss  Bennett's  conlQdent  progress 
toward  the  living-room.  "  Everything's  ready 
for  you  up  there. ' ' 

Miss  Bennett  bristled  slightly. 

*'  I  always  ust  t'  sew  fer  Miss  Minerva  in  th* 
settin'-room,"  she  observed,  as  she  followed  Milly 
up  the  stair.  ''  The'  sewin'  m 'chine  was  there, 
'n'  every  thin'  handy.  I  r 'member  I  made  her 
weddin'  dress.  .  .  .  What's  the  matter?  "  she 
interrupted  herself  in  a  loud  buzzing  whisper. 
''  Anybody  sick?  " 

Milly  shook  her  head. 

'^  They  don't  like  any  noise  about  the  house,'* 
she  explained,  as  she  ushered  the  dressmaker  into 
a  small  room  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

**  Noise?  "  repeated  Miss  Bennett,  adjusting 
her  church  toilet  with  little  pulls  and  pats. 
''  Noise!  Well,  I  d'clare;  I  didn't  realise  'at  I 
was  so  t'  say,  noisy.    Where's  Mis'  Hill?  " 

187 


188  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

Milly  explained  that  Mrs.  Hill  had  not  yet 
breakfasted,  and  would  Miss  Bennett  have  some 
coffee  before  beginning  work? 

''  Might  be's  good  a  way  's  any  t'  git  ac- 
quainted," mused  the  little  dressmaker.  "  I  can't 
sew  ha'f  s'  well  fer  strangers  's  fer  folks  I  know; 
s'  I  don't  mind  ef  I  do." 

A  bright  pink  overspread  Milly 's  young  face. 
She  laid  a  coaxing  hand  upon  Miss  Bennett's  arm. 

''  I — I'll  bring  it  to  you  up  here,"  she  said, ''  on 
— on  a  tray.  That  would  be  pleasanter;  wouldn't 
it?  " 

^'  Well;  I  want  t'  know!  "  piped  Miss  Bennett. 
*'  That  stylish  idee  never  came  out  o'  your  head, 
Milly  Orne.  .  .  .An'  that's  th'  kind  Mis'  Hill 
is,  huh?  "Well,  I  dunno  's  I  keer;  forewarned 's 
forearmed;  'n'  I  c'n  be  full  es  sarcastic  'n'  like 
that  es  th'  next  one.  But  I  don't  want  no  coffee. 
You  c'n  tell  Mis'  Hill,  when  you  go  downstairs. 
Tell  her  I  et  m'  breakfas'  t'  home,  same  es  usual, 
'n'  you  c'n  say  Miss  Malvina  Bennett's  perfec'ly 
able  t'  walk  downstairs  soon  es  it  comes  dinner- 
time." 

When  Mrs.  Hill  finally  appeared  at  the  door  of 
the  back  bedroom  which  she  had  ordered  Milly 
to  make  ready  for  the  sewing,  it  was  to  find  Miss 
Malvina  Bennett  rocking  her  best  frizzed  front 
and  her  black  Henrietta  back  and  forth  in  front 
of  the  window  with  well-simulated  ease. 

*'  You  are  the  seamstress,"  inferred  Mrs.  Hill, 


WHERE  IS  SYLVIA!  189 

briskly;  ''  Miss — er — Bennett.  Our  grocer  told 
me  of  yon.  You  can  make  a  plain  morning-gown, 
I  suppose?  " 

Miss  Bennett  gazed  searchingly  at  the  strange 
woman's  tall,  stout  figure  over  tlie  top  of  her  spec- 
tacles. She  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  was  wearing 
a  real  linen,  hand-embroidered  dress. 

"  Made  up  f 'om  a  imported  robe-pattern,"  she 
told  herself.  "  Cost  fifteen,  ninety-eight,  I 
shouldn't  wonder." 

Aloud  she  said  dryly. 

''  I  guess  I  c'd  make  out,  ef  I  was  t'  try.  I 
sewed  fer  th'  best  people  since  I  was  fifteen :  Mis' 
Deaconess  Buckthorn,  Mis'  Rev'ren'  Pettibone 
an' " 

"  I  have  a  pattern,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hill, 
"  which  may  serve  to  guide  you." 

Miss  Bennett  negligently  indicated  a  pile  of 
gaudily  illustrated  fashion-books. 

"  I  brought  'em  along  thinkin'  likely  you 
wouldn't  'a'  seen  'em,"  she  said,  loftily. 
'^  They're  the  latest  f'om  Noo  York  an'  Paris:  all 
you  got  't  do  is  t'  pick  an'  choose  the  pictur'  you 
like  th'  looks  of.  I  don't  need  no  patterns.  I  got 
m'  own  system." 

**  The  dress  is  for  my  son's  wife,  Mrs.  Walter 
Hill.  You — I  suppose  Mrs.  Pettibone  has  spoken 
toyouof— Mrs.  Hill?  " 

Miss  Bennett  shook  her  head,  her  lips  com- 
pressed to  a  thin  line. 


190  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

"  I  don't  never  gossip,"  she  said,  decidedly. 
"  In  m'  shop,  or  when  I  go  out — which  ain't  often, 
an'  only  t'  accomydate  special,  like  of  course  t' 
you.  I  ain't  no  news-getherer.  Anybody  'at 
knows  me  '11  tell  you  that." 

Mrs.  Hill  turned  abruptly  from  the  bureau- 
drawer  whose  contents  she  was  laying  out  upon  a 
small  table. 

^'  That  is  a  very  good  rule  for  a  seamstress  to 
make  for  herself, ' '  she  said,  coldly. 

"  'Tain't  a  bad  one  fer  other  folks,  when  it 
comes  t'  that,"  cackled  Miss  Bennett.  ''  But  I 
ain't  what  you'd  call  a  seamstress.  I'm  a  reg'lar 
dressmaker.  Now,  ef  you'll  jes'  bring  the  young 
lady  here  till  I  c'n  git  her  measures,  I  c'n  be 
draughtin'  a  pattern.  I  don't  like  t'  let  m'  time 
run  t'  waste." 

Miss  Bennett's  head  was  tilted  slightly  to  one 
side ;  she  gazed  aggressively  at  the  woman  in  the 
hand-embroidered  linen  gown. 

''  Fer  two  cents,"  she  told  herself,  "I'd  walk 
down  them  stairs  'n'  out  th'  front  door.  She  don't 
like  m'  looks,  'n'  she  hates  like  p'ison  t'  fetch  the 
young  woman  where  I  c'n  talk  t'  her.  Like  enough 
she's  got  somethin'  hid,  an'  she's  tryin'  desp'rit' 
hard  t'  pertend  she  ain't.  She's  a  hard,  selfish 
woman,  er  I  lose  my  guess.  But  mebbe  I  b'en 
sent,  who  knows?  " 

Aloud  she  said,  briskly: 

*'  I  can't  do  nothin'  till  I  take  them  measures." 


WHERE  IS  SYLVIA?  191 

Mrs.  Hill  moved  toward  the  door. 

''  I'll  call  my  daughter,"  she  said,  her  full  dark 
eyes  sweeping  the  little  dressmaker  with  cold  dis- 
taste. 

Left  to  herself,  Miss  Bennett  took  a  leisurely 
survey  of  the  materials  laid  out  upon  the  bed  and 
bureau,  and  her  spirits  rose. 

''  Anyhow,  she  ain't  no  ways  stingy,"  she  said, 
aloud,  as  she  measured  off  breadths  of  thin  blue 
stuff,  lengths  of  embroidery,  and  noted  approv- 
ingly the  number  of  spools  of  silk,  bolts  of  ribbon, 
and  cards  of  buttons.  "  That  goods  '11  make  up 
reel  pretty  an'  dressy,  once  I  git  m'  sheers  int' 
it." 

Ten  minutes  more  passed  happily  in  a  search 
through  the  fashion-books  in  pursuit  of  what  Miss 
Bennett  called  '  '■  negii-gees. ' '  These  were  numer- 
ous and  attractive ;  but  the  study  of  them  palled 
after  a  while. 

''  My  stars  alive!  "  exclaimed  the  little  dress- 
maker, indignantly.  ''  That  woman  mus'  think 
I*m  workin'  b'  th'  piece.  Well,  she'll  find  she's 
good  an'  mistaken;  when  I  go  out  special  t'  ac- 
commydate,  it's  b'  th'  day,  whether  I  set  sewin' 
er  idle." 

She  tiptoed  cautiously  to  the  door  and  applied 
her  ear  to  the  keyhole.  No  sound  came  from  the 
passage  without.  Then  she  boldly  opened  the 
door. 

*'  I  didn't  make  no  contrac'  t'  stay  in  this  one 


192  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

room  constant,  't  I  know  of,"  she  muttered,  as  she 
stepped  out.  '*  Land !  I  guess  they  clean  f ergot  I 
was  here." 

Open  doors  to  the  right  and  left  revealed  bed- 
rooms, into  which  breeze  and  sun  streamed  cheer- 
fully. Miss  Bennett's  bird-like  glance  took  swift 
note  of  snowy  bed-linen  and  the  glisten  of  silver 
and  ivory  toilet  articles  as  she  stole  hesitatingly 
toward  the  stair.  She  was  thinking  she  would  find 
Milly ;  Milly  would  know ;  when,  suddenly,  a  voice 
from  the  hall  below  broke  the  silence.  It  was  low 
and  tense. 

''  Walter — Walter!    What  are  you  doing?  " 

"  What  am  I  doing?  What  d'  you  suppose? — 
Reading  a  dreary  novel,  as  usual,"  came  the  reply, 
in  a  man's  drawling  voice. 

*'  Where  is  Sylvia?  I  left  her  here  with  you. 
I  can't  find  her  anywhere." 

''  You  left  her Poor  old  girl;  isn't  she  to 

stroll  in  the  garden,  even,  if  she  feels  like  it?  " 

''No!    Not  alone.    You  know  I  never " 

*'  Yes;  I  know.  And,  see  here.  Mother;  let  me 
tell  you,  you're  making  a  big  mistake " 

''  You  say  she  went  out?    When?  " 

''  Not  ten  minutes  ago.  Good  Lord!  Mother, 
one  would  think " 

"  Go  look  for  her,  quick — quick,  I  say!  Take 
your  horse." 

Miss  Bennett  beat  a  noiseless  retreat  at  sound 
of  a  hurried  foot  on  the  stair.    She  sat  turning 


WHERE  IS  SYLVIA?  193 

over  the  leaves  of  a  fashion-book  by  the  window 
when  Mrs.  Hill  appeared.  The  woman's  large 
face  wore  a  determined  smile. 

"  Has — have  you  seen  anything  of  young  Mrs. 
Hill?  "  she  asked,  her  eyes  searching  the  room. 
*'  I  thought  perhaps " 

"No;  she  ain't  b'en  here,"  replied  Miss  Ben- 
nett. ''  Mebbe  she's  gone  t'  walk.  I  seen  some- 
body in  a  pink  dress,  a  spell  ago,  cuttin'  across  th* 
back  lot.  It's  nice  an'  cool  in  under  the  trees  a 
day  like  this." 

Mrs.  Hill's  plump  hand  sought  her  heart,  with 
an  uncertain  gesture.  She  sank  down  in  a  chair, 
while  a  flood  of  dull  purple  swept  over  her  pallid 
face. 

"  It's — it's  very  warm,"  she  stammered, 
thickly.    • '  I— feel  the  heat. ' ' 

''  I  guess  you  b'en  dashin'  'round  consid'able, 
lookin'  fer  young  Mis'  Hill,"  hazarded  Miss  Ben- 
nett, kindly.  "  Why  not  let  me  an'  Milly  go  look 
fer  her?  We're  both  of  us  light  on  our  feet. 
Fleshy  folks  'at  wears  their  clo'es  too  tight " 

The  woman  was  staring  at  her  dully. 

''  Yes;  go — go,  quick!  You  saw  her — she  had 
on  a  pink  dress;  I — can't " 

Milly  Orne  dropped  the  spoon  with  which  she 
was  stirring  some  fragrant  compound,  at  Miss 
Bennett's  first  explanatory  word.  The  dress- 
maker stood  staring  in  amazement  at  the  girl's 
swift  flight  in  the  direction  she  had  indicated. 


194  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

''  I  want  t'  know!  "  cogitated  Miss  Bennett, 
as  slie  followed  at  a  more  leisurely  pace. 

"  What  in  under  the  canopy  c'n  be  the  matter 
with  young  Mis'  Hill  t'  set  everybody  b'  th'  years 
like  that?    She  mus'  be  crazy,  er  somethin'." 

With  due  regard  to  the  black  Henrietta  cloth 
in  which  she  was  attired,  Miss  Malvina  avoided 
the  fence  at  the  rear  of  the  old  pasture.  There 
was  a  gate,  she  knew,  farther  on ;  and  beyond  the 
gate  a  path  leading  through  a  daisied  meadow. 

'^  Well,  I  d'clare,"  she  murmured.  "  Ef  I  was 
free  'n'  idle  t'  walk  right  out  in  th'  flowers  like 
this,  seems  's  'o'  I'd  be  happy.  I  dunno  when  I've 
b'en  out  in  th'  reel  country  like  this,  a-walkin'." 

There  were  wild  strawberries  ripening  in  the 
meadow;  Miss  Malvina  could  smell  them,  as  shei 
hurried  along  the  path,  her  black  skirts  swishing 
the  tall  grass  on  either  side. 

"  What  'd  I  giv'  t'  hev  on  an  ol'  calico  dress  'n* 
wade  right  int'  th'  grass  a-strawb'ryin'!  "  she 
said  to  herself.  "  I  ain't  hed  a  chanct  t'  do 
nothin'  like  that  since  I  c'n  r 'member  .  .  .  'n' 
wild  strawb'ry  shortcake,  with  cream — m-m-m!  " 

There  was  a  glint  of  pink  showing  beside  a  big 
grey  rock  a  dozen  rods  ahead.  Miss  Malvina 
strained  her  faded  eyes  hopefully.  But  it  was 
only  a  wild  rose  in  a  glory  of  evanescent  bloom. 
Around  the  shoulder  of  the  hill  was  the  placid 
pool,  known  as  Eggleston's  Pond. 

"  I  wonder  ef  she  could  'a'  gone  there?  "  pon- 


WHERE  IS  SYLVIA?  195 

dered  Miss  Malvina,  and  all  unconsciously  quick- 
ened her  steps.  "  The  water-lilies  'ud  be  in  blow. 
Mebbe — mebbe.  .    .    . " 

And  now  Miss  Malvina  caught  the  glint  of  blue 
water  amid  the  soft  green  of  willows,  crowding 
like  eager  children  to  the  water's  edge  among  the 
sturdy  trunks  of  oaks  and  beeches.  And,  yes, 
she  saw  a  motionless  blur  of  warm  rose,  on  the 
brink  of  the  pond.  There  was  a  big  rock  there, 
shouldering  boldly  out  into  the  pool,  and  beneath 
its  shadow  the  water  lay  deep  and  dark.  The  lit- 
tle dressmaker  stooped  to  gather  a  spray  of  wild 
roses,  her  heart  beating  in  her  throat. 

''  I  got  to  be  kind  o'  keerless,  es  if  I  was  out 
fer  pleasure  'n'  jes'  run  acrost  her  casual,"  she 
told  herself.  "  The'  ain't  no  tellin'  what's  in 
that  poor  young  creeter's  mind — a-settin'  there 
lonesome  on  the  edge  o'  that  water.  But  f'om 
what  I  seen  an'  heard  a 'ready,  I  sh'd  say  she 
didn't  hev  it  none  too  pleasant  t'  home,  what  with 
a  husban'  like  that  Walter,  an'  a  ma-in- 
law.  ..." 

At  Miss  Bennett's  approach  the  girl  lifted  dull, 
abstracted  eyes  from  her  fixed  contemplation  of 
the  pool.    But  she  did  not  speak. 

"Good  land!"  cried  Miss  Malvina,  briskly. 
"  You  cert'nly  hev  found  a  nice  cool  place  t'  set 
down  an'  rest,  ain't  you?  It's  real  warm  in  the 
sun.  ...  I  s'pose  you're  young  Mis'  Hill.  My 
name's  Bennett — Miss  Malvina  Bennett.     'N'  I 


196  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

come  up  f  om  the  village  this  mornin'  a-purpose 
t'  make  a  dress  fer  you.  But  come  t'  take  your 
measures,  we  couldn't  find  you  nowhere;  an'  your 
ma-in-law,  she  sez.   .    .    . " 

The  girl  hunched  a  sullen  shoulder  toward  the 
loquacious  little  dressmaker,  her  dark  eyes  again 
seeking  the  silent,  mysterious  depths  on  whose 
brink  she  was  crouching. 

"  You  won't  mind  ef  I  set  down  a  minute  t' 
git  cooled  off,  will  you?  "  continued  Miss  Malvina, 
rather  breathlessly.  "  I  sez  t'  your  ma-in-law, 
'  I'll  step  out  an'  cast  m'  eye  around,'  I  sez.  She 
was  all  het  up  an'  excited.  I  s'pose  she  kind  o* 
hated  to  see  me  a-settin'  there  idle,  b'  th'  day  at 
that.  But  o'  course  I  couldn't  put  m'  shears  t' 
th'  goods  without  I  took  your  measures.  Thinks 
I,  I  bet  that  young  lady's  gone  after  water- 
lilies.  Ain't  they  han'some  though?  Makes  me 
think  of  a  night-bloomin'  cactus  'at  Mis'  Dea- 
coness Scrimger  lied  one  time.  Ever  see  one? 
They  call  it  Serious  'cause  it  don't  never  open 
'xcept  at  night.  But  I  think  I  like  the  day- 
bloomin'  flowers  best.  They're  cheerful.  The's 
a  reg'lar  little  sun-burst  in  every  one  o'  them 
lilies;  did  y'  ever  take  notice?  Land!  I  wish  I 
hed  a  scow.  We'd  git  some  of  'em  t'  take  home. 
The'  ust  t'  be  a  fishin'-boat  tied  t'  th'  willows  on 
th'  other  side;  but  I  see  it's  sunk  t'  th'  bottom." 

The  girl  sighed  uncertainly.  It  was  a  piteous 
sound,  suggesting  a  spent  sob.    Miss  Malvina  put 


WHERE  IS  SYLVIA?  197 

out  her  worn  little  hand  and  touched  the  girl 
gently. 

'*  Now,  you  come  on  home  with  me,  Mis'  Hill," 
she  said,  coaxingly.  ''  'N'  we'll  make  up  that 
han'some  goods  int'  th'  purtiest  dress  we  c'n  find 
in  th'  pictur's.  Th's  a  lady  in  colours  on  th'  out- 
side cover  'at  looks  a  lot  like  you " 

''  I — I  don't  want  any  dress,"  said  the  girl,  in 
a  low,  smothered  voice.  ''  Go  away,  please;  and 
— and  don't  tell  Mother  where  I  am." 

Miss  Malvina  pushed  back  her  best  frizzed 
front  from  a  forehead  on  which  beads  of  perspira- 
tion were  beginning  to  glisten. 

''  Ef  I  do,"  she  said,  desperately,  "  like  es  not 
you'd  git  dizzy  an'  fall  in  that  there  water.  It's 
awful  deep,  right  b'  that  stone.  I  know,  'cause  a 
boy,  he  got  drownded  there,  when  I  was  a  girl. 
Land!  ef  I  was  Philura  Rice — her- 'twas;  she's 
Mis'  Rev'ren'  Pettibone,  now — she'd  know  what 
t'  say.  She'd  tell  you  cheerful  'bout  th'  All-En- 
circlin'  Good,  with  everythin'  you  want  in  it, 
ready  t'  your  han'.  Ef  it's  folks  you  want  special, 
er  clo'es  'n'  like  that.  Philura  found  her  husban' 
that  way;  he  was  right  there  all  the  time,  being 
th'  pastor.  But  he'd  no  more  'a'  thought  o'  mar- 
rying Philura  Rice;  an'  I'll  stick  t'  that  t'  m' 
dyin'  day.  But  b'lie\an',  the  way  she  done,  sort 
o'  drawed  him  right  to  her.  He  couldn't  no  more 
'a'  helped  bein'  drawed  'an  a  tack  c'n  help  stickin' 
to  one  o'  these  'ere  magnums.   .    .    .  You  know; 


198  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

they're  shaped  like  a  horse-shoe,  an'  painted  red. 
I  got  one  t'  my  house,  with  nails  a-hangin'  to  it 
like  they  was  glued." 

The  girl  had  turned  and  was  staring,  wide- 
eyed. 

"  You  say  she  found — her  husband?  "Was  he 
lost?    When — where  was  he?  " 

Miss  Malvina  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  We  c'n  be  talkin'  whilst  we  walk  along,"  she 
suggested,  cheerfully.  '^  Mebbe  somebody  er 
other  '11  come  on  us  sudden,  ef  we  set  here  any 
longer. ' ' 

The  girl  rose  obediently.  She  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  the  dark  lure  of  the  water. 

"  You'll  hev  t'  go  an'  see  Mis'  Pettibone  fer 
yourself,"  went  on  Malvina  Bennett.  "  Ask  her 
t'  tell  you.  I  don't  rightly  understan'  all  th'  is 
to  it.  But  es  nigh  es  I  c'd  make  out,  th'  Eev'ren' 
Pettibone,  he  was  in  the  Encirclin'  Good — every- 
body's in  it;  you  an'  me,  'n'  your  hus'ban',  'n' 
even  your  ma-in-law — though  like  enough  she 
don't  sense  it.  Most  folks  don't.  He  was  in  it; 
'n'  Philura,  bein',  so  t'  say,  alone  in  the  world 
an'  kind  of  Ion 'some,  jus'  drawed  him  t'  her  b' 
her  thoughts.  '  It's  'nough  t'  scare  a  body  t' 
think  what  they  c'n  do  jest  b'  thinkin'  keerless,'  I 
sez  t'  Philura.  '  I  wouldn't  das  t'  advertise  fer 
no  man  that-a-way,'  sez  I,  '  fer  fear  he'd  show 
Tip,  'n'  I  wouldn't  like  him  when  he  come.'  .  .  . 
Look  there!    Ef  there  ain't  your  ma-in-law.    She 


WHERE  IS  SYLVIA?  199 

sees  us.  Now,  you  want  t'  chirk  right  up.  Don't 
go  off  no  more  b'  yourself.  When  you  git  that 
new  dress,  all  made  up  stylish,  come  down  t'  the 
village  an'  see  Mis'  Eev'ren'  Pettibone.  She's 
an  awful  interestin'  woman  an'  she'll  tell  you  how 
t'  git  anythin'  out  th'  atmosphere  you  want. 
.  .  .  'N'  say,  I  pass  th'  i^ost-office  on  m'  way 
home.  I  thought  I'd  mention  it,  in  case  you  was 
writin'  t'  any  o'  your  frien's " 

The  older  Mrs.  Hill  was  close  upon  them. 

''  Sylvia!  "  she  cried,  her  breath  coming  in 
great  gasps.    "  Sylvia!  " 

The  girl  looked  at  her  from  under  mutinous 
brows. 

"  Good  land.  Mis'  Hill,  th'  wasn't  no  need  of 
your  gittin'  all  het  up!  "  expostulated  Miss  Ben- 
nett. "  I  ain't  going  t'  charge  ye  a  cent  fer  th' 
time  I  spent  walkin'  out.  Me  an'  young  Mis'  Hill 
enjoyed  every  minute  of  it;  didn't  we.  Mis'  Hill? 
a-lookin'  at  th'  water-lilies  an'  all.   .    .    .  " 

It  was  dusk,  with  a  glimmer  of  fire-flies  in  the 
dark  trees,  when  Miss  Malvina,  carrying  a  flat 
paper  parcel,  hurried  along  the  narrow  road 
leading  to  the  village.  She  had  done  a  good  day's 
work,  she  knew;  and  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress 
reposed  a  letter,  slipped  unseen  into  her  hand  as 
she  draped  the  runaway  of  the  morning  with  be- 
coming folds  of  the  dark  blue  stuff. 

"I  c'n  finish  this  'ere  dress  to  home  in  m' 
shop,"   she  had  explained  to  her  new  patron. 


200  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

^'  'N'  I'd  a  siglit  rutlier  do  it,  not  relisliin'  m' 
vittles  et  solitary  off  a  tray,  like  I  was  sick  a-bed, 
wMch  thank  tli'  Lord  I'm  well,  'n'  expect  t'  be, 
D.  V. — es  Miss  Deaconess  Buckthorn  always  says 
pious.  I  'spose  it  stan's  for  '  don't  ventilate;' 
'n'  I  will  say,  too  many  draughts  ain't  good  fer  m' 
neuralgia." 

Arrived  at  last  under  the  glaring  arc-light 
which  the  enterprising  citizens  of  Innisfield  had 
placed  directly  in  front  of  the  post-office,  Miss 
Malvina  slowly  drew  the  letter  from  her  pocket. 

"  Ef  I  was  t'  giv'  one  look  at  th'  writin',"  she 
reflected,  ''  I  couldn't  no  more  help  speakin'  of 
it,  'an  a  sparrer  c'n  help  chirpin'.  So  I  guess  I'll 
jus'  shet  my  eyes,  whilst  I " 

A  depressing  sense  of  the  irreparable  swept 
over  Miss  Malvina,  as  she  turned  slowly  away, 
after  hearing  the  letter  flop  smartly  against  the 
bottom  of  the  official  box. 

''  'Tain't  human  not  t'  wonder  who  it's  to," 
she  breathed.  "  'N'  I  don't  s'pose  she'd  'a' 
cared  a  mite,  neither — me  takin'  an  int'rest  'n' 
like  that.  Anyway,  that  ma-in-law  o'  hern  '11 
never  git  her  ban's  onto  it.  It's  U.  S.  Mail,  f 'om 
now  on.     'N' I  done  m' best." 


CHAPTER  XVni 

WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

There  are  nights  in  summer  wMcli  are  not  meant 
to  be  wasted  in  sleep,  for  a  magical  veil,  woven 
from  moonlight  and  dew  and  the  fragrance  of  a 
million  flowers,  transfigures  the  prosaic  world  of 
labour  and  sorrow  into  a  place  of  wondrous  de- 
light. On  nights  like  this,  one  who  foregoes  his 
sleep  to  wander  forth  into  the  enchanted  land  of 
faerie  may  see  and  hear  much  that  is  hid  from  the 
wise  and  prudent,  who  tarry  bed-fast  till  day- 
break. Under  the  roof  of  the  old  Eggleston 
house,  Milly  Orne  lay  wide-eyed  in  her  narrow 
bed;  outside  her  window  in  the  topmost  branches 
of  a  blossoming  catalpa  a  bird  sang  drowsily 
sweet  snatches  of  matin  song.  A  pair  of  cat- 
birds were  nesting  there,  and  the  little  bro^\Ti 
father  of  the  fledglings  safely  folded  under  the 
mother's  breast  waked  and  slept  on  his  s\\dnging 
bough,  and  waked  again  in  the  broad  light  of  the 
moon  to  ease  his  heart  of  its  dream  of  love. 

"  It  must  be  near  morning,"  thought  Milly,  who 
also  had  slept  fitfully,  being  dimly  aware  of  the 
moonlight  flooding  her  dingy  little  room  and  of 
the  bird-song  and  fragrance  beneath  her  window. 

She  arose,  after  a  little,  and  bound  her  long 

201 


202  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

hair  about  her  head.  If  at  night-fall  she  had  felt 
weariness  and  the  leaden  desire  to  sleep,  both 
had  vanished,  leaving  her  wondrous  strong  and 
light  of  heart.  She  thought  with  sudden  longing 
of  the  garden  Grandfather  Orne  had  pridefully 
laid  out  for  Grandmother  back  in  the  fifties.  It 
had  been  sadly  neglected  in  Milly  's  absence,  lusty 
weeds  flaunting  their  coarse  leaves  in  the  queer 
old-fashioned  rounds  and  squares  sacred  to  the 
delicate  blossoms  of  bluebells,  lilies,  and  sweet- 
williams.  It  would  .soon  be  daylight  (thought 
Milly),  but  surely  the  night  was  her  own  to  do 
with  as  she  willed. — And  so,  almost  before  she 
:was  aware  of  her  resolution,  she  had  passed 
softly  through  the  sleeping  house  and  out  into  the 
magical  night. 

High  in  the  bridal  white  of  his  chamber  the  bird 
trilled  softly,  while  half-hid  in  the  unshorn  grass 
dew-drenched  sprays  of  honeysuckle  and  roses 
yielded  their  perfume  as  the  girl's  light  garments 
brushed  past  them.  Like  a  spirit  she  flitted  down 
the  long  avenue  of  trees,  unaware  of  following 
eyes  as  wakeful  as  her  own. 

The  two  old  people  lay  heavily  asleep  in  their 
bedroom  next  the  kitchen.  Milly  paused  under 
their  window,  propped  open  a  hand's  breadth, 
and  listened,  smiling,  to  the  raucous  concert  of 
their  breathing.  The  old  dog  had  roused  from 
his  mat  on  the  doorstep  with  a  smothered  bark, 
only  to  whine  and  fondle  the  hand  held  out  to  him. 


WINGS  OF  THE  MOENING  203 

Perhaps  he  was  well  used  to  seeing  a  sweet  young 
ghost  flitting  among  the  flowers  of  a  moonlight 
night,  for  he  retreated  to  his  place  and  lay  down, 
his  wise  old  head  on  his  paws,  his  eyes,  which 
saw  things  not  to  be  uttered  or  understood,  fol- 
lowing the  movements  of  the  girl. 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  distinguish  between  the 
coarse-textured  leaves  of  encroaching  weeds  and 
the  rightful  denizens  of  the  garden-beds.  The 
moon,  swinging  halfway  between  zenith  and  hori- 
zon, shed  only  a  mystic  half-light  over  the  sleeping 
garden.  To  her  vexation  Milly  perceived  that  she 
had  rooted  up  more  than  one  of  the  thrifty  four- 
0 '-clocks  and  petunias,  their  velvet  cups  close 
shut  against  the  dew.  After  all,  toil  belonged  to 
the  day,  and  in  this  old  garden,  asleep  and  breath- 
ing perfume,  there  were  no  weeds ;  the  magic  of 
the  moonlight  had  touched  them  all  with  beauty. 

So  Milly  trod  the  worn  paths,  her  feet  making 
no  sound  on  the  soft  earth,  her  hands  caressing  the 
nodding  blossoms,  her  fresh  lips  brushing  the  dew 
from  their  petals, — while  the  moon  swung  lower  in 
the  west,  and  along  the  eastern  horizon  a  faint 
glow,  dim  and  mystical  as  the  heart  of  a  sleeping 
rose,  betrayed  the  dawn.  Then  all  at  once  the 
birds  awoke,  with  soft  twitters  and  half-uttered 
trills;  nestlings  began  to  cry  weakly  for  food, 
thrusting  callow  heads  against  the  shielding 
breasts  that  brooded  them.  The  old  dog  rose 
from  his  mat,  yawned,  turned  thrice  around  and 


204  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

lay  down  again,  his  wise  head  on  Ms  paws,  his 
yellow  eyes  following  the  girl's  light  figure.  (Or 
was  it  merely  the  familiar  ghost  which  always 
vanished  at  daybreak f) 

Milly  had  gained  the  road,  her  hands  filled  to 
overflowing  with  flowers,  her  thoughts  as  wild  and 
free  as  the  birds  flitting  overhead  in  the  blended 
light  of  dawn  and  dying  moon.  She  felt  no  fear 
and  but  little  wonder  when  at  the  turn  of  the  road 
she  met  him. 

**  What  a  night,"  he  sighed.  ''  And  you — yon 
are  not  a  mortal  woman,  I  swear — but  a  spirit.  I 
think  I  am — afraid." 

Milly  looked  at  him,  gravely. 

*'  What  is  a  mortal?  "  she  asked.  "  And  what 
is  a  spirit?  And  why  should  one  be  afraid,  as 
you  say,  of  either?  " 

**  Hard  questions,  those,"  he  made  answer. 
*'  Yet  it  comes  to  me  that  I  also  am  a  spirit;  and 
meeting  thus,  neither  should  be  afraid  of  the 
other." 

And  whether  it  was  the  magic  of  the  hour,  or 
the  pleading  in  his  dark  eyes  seeking  hers,  Milly 
felt  neither  fear  of  him,  nor  shame  which  is  more 
cruel  than  fear. 

*'  If  in  truth,"  he  went  on,  *'  you  and  I  were  not 
mortals,  but  spirits,  I  might  say  many  things  to 
you;  and  you — would  listen." 

''  I  will  listen,"  said  Milly,  eager  as  a  moth  at 
the  lip  of  a  flower. 


WINGS  OF  THE  MOEKLNG  205 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  been  unhappy,  being  bonnd 
with  a  hateful  chain — which,  after  all,  is  not  a 
chain  but  a  silken  web,  spun  in  secret  out  of  fear 
and  pride.  I  was  asleep  when  the  chain  was  laid 
upon  me;  but  now  I  am  awake,  and  I  see  that  I 
must  break  it — for  your  sake  and  my  own." 

The  girl  turned  her  glorified  face  toward  him, 
the  rose  of  dawn  upon  it. 

"  K  I  should  pretend  that  I  do  not  understand 
you,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  it  would  not  be  truth." 

"  Milly!  "  he  cried.  ''  You  know  that  I  love 
you!  " 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  breathed.  ' '  I  know.  And  I — love 
you." 

But  when  (being  mortal  and  a  man)  he  would 
have  clasped  and  kissed  her,  she  drew  away, 
regarding  him  over  the  mass  of  flowers  she 
held  against  her  breast,  her  face  in  the  light 
of  the  living  dawn  gravely  sweet  as  that  of  an 
angel. 

"  There  is  the  chain,"  she  said.  "  It  lies  be- 
twixt us. ' ' 

"  Have  I  not  said  it  is  not  a  chain,"  he  cried, 
*'  but  a  web  of  lies?  It  shall  not  separate  us. 
...  I  am  not " 

But  she  halted  the  words  on  his  lips  with  a 
look. 

"  There  are  others  to  be  thought  of,"  she  re- 
minded him. 

He  groaned  aloud. 


206  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

*'  But  not  for  always,"  he  said.  ''  Not  forever, 
Milly— Milly!  " 

And  now  the  moon  had  altogether  vanished 
from  behind  them,  and  its  magic  light  lost  in  the 
flood  of  honest  day  which  streamed  full  in  their 
young  faces.    The  girl  looked  at  him  steadfastly. 

*'  We  have  both  forgotten  many  things,"  she 
said,  sadly.  "  It  is  not  possible  to  unsay  words, 
once  they  are  spoken-^I  would  to  God  it  were !  ' ' 

''  It  is  not  possible,"  he  echoed.  ''  Thank  God, 
it  is  not  possible!  "  and  with  that  name  upon  his 
lips,  took  her  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  stooping 
Jdssed  it  with  all  reverence. 

' '  Milly, ' '  he  said,  ' '  whether  you  believe  me,  or 
not,  I  have  done  you  no  wrong." 

*'  To  me,"  she  breathed,  ''  you  have  done  no 
wrong;  but  to  another " 

^'  To  another,  I  have  done  no  wrong,  I  swear 
it!  I  will  tell  you  everything  and  you  shall 
judge " 

But  at  that  she  cried  out. 

**  Tell  me  nothing,"  she  entreated.  ^'  Let  me 
go!" 

She  was  only  a  woman,  trembling  and  terror- 
smitten,  now  that  the  hour  of  her  exaltation  was 
past. 

' '  Let  me  go !  "  she  wailed.  ' '  Oh,  why  did  you 
come  out  to  meet  me?  " 

As  before,  he  did  not  attempt  to  follow;  but 
stood  watching  her  with  troubled  eyes,  till  the  last 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING  207 

light  flutter  of  her  garments  vanished  on  the 
green  hillside. 

* '  I  am  a  fool !  "  he  said,  aloud.  And  smote  his 
clenched  fist  in  his  palm. 

For  a  long  time  thereafter  he  lay  prone  upon 
his  face  among  the  fern,  thinking  the  long,  long 
thoughts  of  youth,  which  in  truth  take  wings  of 
the  morning  from  deeps  of  black  despair  to 
heights  dreamed  of  but  never  quite  attained.  Yet 
it  is  good  to  fly. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GEAISTDMA   ORjSTE   SPEAKS   HER   MINT? 

Grandma  Orne  sat  under  the  shelter  of  her  small 
porch,  looking  out  with  patient,  faded  eyes  over 
the  old  garden,  where  long  spikes  of  hollyhock 
and  foxglove  swayed  gently  in  the  light  breeze. 
It  was  nearing  the  hour  of  sunset  and  a  warm 
yellow  light  brooded  the  garden  and  touched  the 
tops  of  the  apple-trees  with  gold.  Outside  the 
palings,  lost  in  vines  and  luxuriant  garlands  of 
honeysuckle,  the  road  thick  with  dust  wound  away 
toward  the  hills.  The  old  woman  had  been  sewing 
carpet-rags  and  a  big  basket  filled  with  the  parti- 
coloured balls  stood  at  her  side.  In  the  rocking- 
chair  beside  her.  Grandfather  had  fallen  asleep, 
his  head  thinly  covered  with  wisps  of  white  hair 
bent  sidewise ;  from  his  half-closed  lips  the  breath 
escaped  in  little  puffs,  varied  by  an  occasional 
snorting  whistle. 

Grandmother  glanced  at  him  indulgently,  al- 
most condescendingly.  She  never  slept  in  the 
day-time.  Presently,  she  got  up  from  her  chair 
and  walked  slowly  to  the  gate,  her  lips  moving 
soundlessly.  She  was  tliinking  of  Milly  and  of 
the  fact  that  for  more  than  a  week  the  girl  had 
not  visited  the  cottage. 

208 


GRANDMA  OENE  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    209 

"I'd  like  t'  know  what  she's  a-doin',"  she  said, 
to  herself.  ^'  Ef  she  don't  come  t '-night,  I  guess 
I'll  hev  t'  g'  up  there  an'  see." 

Her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  Hills'  evening 
dinners  with  rising  indignation. 
,  "  It's  all  them  hearty  vittles  t'  git  ready," 
she  muttered.  "  Meat  'n'  p'tatoes  'n'  sich  at 
night  ain't  good  fer  nobody.  Makes  'em  frac- 
tious, like  too  much  oats  would  a  horse.  Ef  she'd 
a-said  in  the  th'  b'ginnin'  she  wasn't  ust  t'  no 
sech  nonsense,  I  guess  that  woman  'd  'a'  giv'  in." 

The  lad's-love,  petunias,  and  mignonette  grow- 
ing luxuriantly  in  their  humble  beds  gave  out 
sweet  odours  as  the  old  woman's  skirt  brushed 
past.  She  came  to  the  gate  presently  and,  leaning 
upon  it,  looked  up  and  down  the  dusty  road  with 
the  submissive  eyes  of  age,  no  longer  eagerly  ex- 
pectant of  anything.  The  sun  was  about  to  disap- 
pear behind  a  bank  of  purple  cloud  massed  solidly 
upon  the  horizon  like  distant  mountains.  Mrs. 
Orne  gazed  at  it  with  silent  disapproval.  Then 
her  eyes  travelled  slowly  to  the  roof  of  the  old 
house.  Part  of  the  blackened  shingles  had  al- 
ready been  replaced  with  new;  but  there  was  a 
large  patch  where  the  stripped  rafters  lay  open  to 
the  sky. 

"  Didn't  I  warn  Gran 'pa  over  'n'  over  not  t' 
let  them  boys  rip  off  one  more  shingle  'an  they 
was  ready  t'  lay?  "  she  muttered,  wrathfully. 
'^  An'  Gran 'pa,  he  sez  t'  me, '  You  g'  in  'n'  ten' t' 


210  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

yer  Imittin',  Mother,'  he  sez.  Let  s'm'  other 
men-folks  come  'round  th'  place,  it's  wonderful 
how  smart  an'  knowin'  Gran 'pa  doos  git  all  of  a 
sudden.  Seems  like  they  kin'  o'  'ncourage  each 
other  in  foolishness.  Well;  ef  it  sets  in  fer  a 
good  stidy  rain,  come  t '-morrow,  mebbe  Gran 'pa 
'11  wish  he'd  listened  t'  me." 

She  turned  her  back  on  the  threatening  sunset 
to  gaze  once  more  toward  the  bend  in  the  road, 
where  her  grand-daughter's  slim  figure  had  so 
often  appeared  on  its  way  to  the  cottage.  There 
were  two  figures  there  now,  vaguely  outlined 
against  the  parched  growths  of  midsummer.  The 
old  woman  strained  her  dim  eyes  upon  them. 

"  Looks  like  Milly;  but  the's  somebody  else. 
Might  be  Will  Craddock;  he  gits  down  this  way 
sometimes.  ...  No;  'tain't  Will.  He  ain't  s' 
tall,  ner  .  .  .  Who  c'n  it  be?  She's  talkin'  t' 
him,  turnin'  her  face  up  t'  him,  like  a  flower. 
.  .  .  She's  got  that  same  pretty  way  o'  lookin' 
out  o'  her  eyes  our  Milly  had.  Awful  sweet  an' 
■ — an'  innercent.  .  .  .  She  don'  know  no  more'n 
a  baby — I  never  told  her;  mebbe  I'd  ought  t'  'a' 
told  her.   .    .    .No;   that  ain't  anybody  I  ever 

see  b'fore,  unless My  grief!  it's  that  fellow 

'at  rides  a-past  here  on  a  brown  horse, — him  that 
lives  there!    But  he's  married.  ..." 

The  two  were  close  at  hand  now,  walking 
slowly. — Mrs.  Orne,  her  small  bent  figure  half- 
concealed  in  the  shadow  of  a  lilac  bush,  peered 


GRANDMA  ORNE  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    211 

out  at  them  fearfully.  She  saw  that  Milly  was 
looking  down,  her  face  pale  in  the  yellow  light 
that  flared  up  from  behind  the  sullen  cloud-bank 
in  the  west,  and  that  the  man's  tall  head  was 
bent ;  he  was  talking  to  her  in  low  urgent  tones. 

'^  You  believe  me,  don't  you,  Milly?  "  the  old 
woman  heard  him  say. 

The  girl  looking  up  suddenly  caught  sight  of 
the  pale,  watchful  face  behind  the  gate.  She 
waved  her  hand  in  greeting. 

''  It's  Gran 'mother,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 
*'  No;  don't  wait,  please.    I " 

But  Mrs.  Orne  had  stepped  outside;  her  old 
eyes  flaming. 

''  You  seem  t'  'a'  got  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  my  gran '-darter?  "  she  said,  staring  fixedly 
at  the  tall  young  man. 

He  stopped  short,  hat  in  hand. 

^'  How  could  I  help  it?  "  he  said,  smiling. 
*'  You  don't  mind,  I  hope — Mrs.  Orne." 

''  Yes;  I  do  mind.  You  got  th'  same  nice  way 
with  you.  I  see  that  b'fore  now.  But  bein'  a 
married  man,  I  didn't  think  t'  warn  Milly  against 
ye." 

"  Gran 'mother!  "  protested  the  girl. 

The  old  woman  turned  fiercely  upon  her. 
*'  G'  in  th'  house,"  she  commanded.  "  I  got  a 
word  t'  say  t'  him;  I  know  his  nice,  smooth- 
spoken kind.    Go  in,  I  say!  " 

The  girl  cast  a  proud  glance  at  the  man,  as  she 


212  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

passed  in  at  the  gate.  He  smiled  reassuringly  at 
her. 

Mrs.  Orne  watched  her  grand-daughter  as  she 
trod  lightly  between  the  borders  of  sweet-smelling 
flowers.  Then  she  faced  the  young  man,  who 
stood  regarding  her  perplexedly. 

"  You  was  try  in'  t'  make  her  b'lieve  some- 
thin  V'  she  said,  sharply.    "  What  was  it?  " 

**  Why — really,    Mrs.    Orne,"    he    protested. 

i  I  T J  > 

"  Hev'  you  b'en  makin'  love  t'  Milly?  Answer 
me,  straight !  ' ' 

He  stared  at  her,  his  dark  brows  gathered  over 
troubled  eyes. 

'^  I  haven't  said  anything  I'm  not  willing  to 
stand  by, ' '  he  broke  out,  after  a  prolonged  pause. 
''I'll  tell  you  that  much." 

"  Huh!  I'd  ought  t'  be  'bleeged  t'  ye,  fer  your 
kindness,  I  s'pose,"  sneered  the  old  woman. 
"  Mebbe  your  wife  c'd  tell  me  what  sort  of  a  man 
you  are." 

He  moved  away  a  few  steps. 

"  I — Permit  me  to  say  good-night,"  he 
murmured. 

"  Come  back  here!  "  cried  Mrs.  Orne,  stamping 
her  foot. 

Her  usually  mild,  good-tempered  face  was  dis- 
torted with  fury.    She  seized  him  by  the  wrist. 

''I'm  a-goin'  t'  tell  ye  somethin'  'bout  Milly," 
she  hissed  in  his  ear.     "  She  don't  know  it  no 


I 


GEANDMA  OKNE  SPEAKS  HEE  MIND    213 

more  'n  a  baby.  I  never  meant  she  should.  She 's 
growed  up  here  along  of  us,  jes'  like  one  o'  them 
posies,  sweet  an'  innercent  an'  good.  I  wanted 
she  sh'd  stay  so.  I  wanted  she  sh'd  marry  a  good, 
honest  man,  'at  'd  take  keer  of  her  when  we  was 
dead  'n' gone.  .  .  .  Lord!    Lord!  " 

Tears  rushed  into  the  fierce  old  eyes ;  she  raised 
her  apron  to  wipe  them  away. 

"  Mrs.  Orne,"  he  began,  slowly,  '^  I  wish  you 
would  believe  me,  when  I  say " 

' '  B  'lieve  you !  ' '  she  cried,  shrilly.  ' '  B  'lieve 
you?  I  wouldn't  b 'lieve  a  fellow  like  you,  with 
yer  hand  on  th'  Bible!  Her  mother  was  fooled 
int'  b'lievin'  a  nice,  good-lookin,'  smooth-spoken 
chap  like  you ;  an '  what  'd  she  git  f er  it  ?  A  heart 
broke  in  two,  shame  an'  black  looks,  an' — a  grave. 
I  c'n  show  it  to  ye;  over  there  in  the  cem'tary. 
That's  what  she  got  fer  b'lievin'.  'N'  d'  you 
s'pose  I'm  a-goin'  t'  let  little  Milly — all  we  got 
left  in  the  world — d'  you  think  fer  a  minute  I'm 
a-goin'  t'  stan'  back,  p'lite  an'  fearful  o'  m'  bet- 
ters— th'  way  you'd  expect  an  old  woman  like  me 
— and  leave  you  t'  tromp  her  down  in  the  mud? 
You  got  t'  go  a-past  me,  first." 

He  drew  a  hard  breath  and  squared  his  young 
shoulders. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
"  You've  had  your  say,  now  I'll  have  mine.  This 
is  a  devilish  world,  I'm  beginning  to  think.  But 
I " 


214  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

He  stopped  short,  his  teeth  set  hard  on  his 
nether  lip. 

''I'm  waitin'  t'  hear,"  scoffed  the  old  woman. 

"I  wish  you'd  take  a  good  look  at  me,"  he 
broke  out  desperately.  "  You've  taken  a  lot  for 
granted  that  isn't  true.    You  aren't — fair!  " 

Something  in  his  boyish  voice  touched  her. 
She  took  him  by  both  arms  and  turned  him  toward 
the  waning  sunset-light. 

^'  Mebbe  I've  said  too  much,"  she  mumbled. 
"  Mebbe  I " 

She  peered  up  at  him,  straining  to  her  tiptoes, 
her  withered  hands  gripping  the  lapels  of  his  coat. 
He  submitted  to  her  inspection ;  his  angry,  honest 
eyes  staring  down  at  her. 

' '  Don 't  tell  her  what  you  told  me, ' '  he  begged. 
"  God!  it's  too— brutal!  " 

His  voice  broke. 

The  old  woman  suddenly  released  him. 

*'  Mebbe  I  said  too  much,"  she  repeated, 
humbly.  "  But  I — I'm  awful  feared  o'  strangers. 
I'm  awful — feared." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  said, 
roughly.    ''  You  won't — tell  her?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  mumbling  wordlessly  to 
herself. 

''  'Twould  hurt  her — you  think?  Yes,  yes; 
you're  right,  she's  like  one  o'  them  tall  posies  in 
the  garden.  Say — you  wouldn't  tromp  a  white 
flower  in  th'  mud,  would  you?  " 


GRANDMA  ORNE  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    215 

She  heard  his  sharp-drawn  breath;  saw  the 
blood  leave  his  dark  face. 

' '  You  wouldn  't  ?  "  she  begged,  all  the  fury  gone 
out  of  her  tremulous  old  voice.  "  Me  'n' 
Gran 'pa  set  an  awful  store  b'  Milly.  She's  all  we 
got  left.  'N'  you  wouldn't  do  nothin'  t'  hurt 
her " 

''Don't!"  he  groaned.  "For  God's  sake — 
don't!" 

He  turned  and  strode  away,  his  feet  making  no 
sound  in  the  thick  dust  of  the  road.  From  behind 
the  solid  rampart  of  cloud  the  last  gleam  of  yel- 
low light  shot  upward,  flickered  and  faded.  .  .  . 

Milly  bent  a  troubled,  questioning  gaze  on  her 
grandmother,  as  the  old  woman  hobbled  slowly 
into  view  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  Mrs. 
Orne  made  pretence  of  gathering  some  fallen  bits 
•of  cloth  from  the  floor  of  the  porch. 

"  It's  a-goin'  t'  rain,  Gran 'pa,"  she  said,  rais- 
ing her  voice.  "  I  tol'  ye  't  would  this  mornin', 
an  'all  them  shingles  ripped  off." 

"  Rain!  "  scoffed  Gran 'pa.  ''  'Tain't  a-goin' 
t'  rain,  jes'  t'  spite  me.  Th'  Lord  don't  care  a 
cotton  hat  what  you  tol'  me  this  mornin'." 

''  Gran 'pa  Orne,  you'd  better  be  keerful  th' 
way  you  talk.  We  ain't  no  mor'n  'n  chaff  in  th' 
mill-race,  ready  t '  be  swep '  away.    Lord !  Lord !  ' ' 

Her  voice  rang  out  in  a  shrill  crescendo. 

^'  Don't  holler  so,  Ma,"  protested  the  old  man. 
*'  Me  'n'  Milly  ain't  deef ;  be  we,  Milly?  " 


216  THE  HEAKT  OF  PHILUEA 

The  girl  was  looking  up  anxiously  at  the  sky 
and  the  dismantled  roof. 

*'  I'm  afraid  it  is  going  to  rain,"  she  said. 
' '  And  the  roof — Oh !  it 's  open  right  over  your 
bedroom.  You'll  have  to  move  to  the  other  side. 
I'll  help  you,  Gran 'ma ;  then  I  must  go  back  before 
it's  dark." 

*'  I  ain't  goin'  t'  let  you  go  back  no  more,  Milly. 
You  b'en  gone  long  'nough.  Me  'n'  Gran 'pa 
needs  you." 

The  girl  had  risen  from  her  seat  on  the  door- 
step. 

*'  We'll  move  the  bed  into  the  kitchen,"  she 
said.    **  Then  I  must  go." 

Her  face  with  its  clear,  pure  outlines  shone  like 
a  pearl  in  the  dusk  of  the  little  bedroom,  as  she 
began  to  strip  off  quilts  and  pillows. 

''  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  t'  you?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Orne,  almost  timidly.  "  Or  was  you 
thinkin'  'bout — 'bout  somethin'  else?  " 

''  I  heard  you,  Gran 'mother!  But  I  can't  leave 
them  now,  without  warning.  It  wouldn't  be 
right. ' ' 

Both  women  were  silent,  taking  refuge  from 
each  other's  questioning  eyes  in  the  task  of  taking 
down  the  old  bedstead  and  carrying  it  to  the 
kitchen. 

"  If  Gran 'pa  hadn't  b'en  s'  brash,"  muttered 
Mrs.  Orne.  "  T  warned  him  not  t'  let  them 
boys    rip   off    shingles    reckless,    th'   way   they 


I 


GEANDMA  ORNE  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    217 


done.  But  he's  so  set  in  his  own  way,  Gran 'pa 
is." 

Milly  smiled  absent-mindedly,  as  she  spread 
the  coarse  sheets  over  the  straw  mattress. 

''  Poor  Gran 'father,"  she  murmured, 

"  Poor  Gran 'father!  "  echoed  Mrs.  Orne, 
sharply.  "  Whatever  makes  you  say  that?  A 
body  'd  think  I  was  crazy,  er — er — I  guess  I  got 
some  sense.  I  c'n  see  through  a  millstone  with  a 
hole  in  it  s'  good  's  the  next  one.  I  don't  want 
you  should  go  back  there.  You  b'en  there  too 
long  a 'ready." 

Milly 's  lids  drooped. 

' '  Why  did  you — speak  to  Mr.  Hill  the  way  you 
did?  "  she  asked,  rather  breathlessly. 

"  Why  sh'd  he  be  talkin'  t'  you?  That's  what 
I  want  t'  know.  An'  why  sh'd  he  be  a-walkin' 
long  side  o'  you,  bendin'  his  head  down  like  he 
was — like  you  was — an'  him  a  married  man?  " 

The  girl  stooped  and  laid  her  cool,  fresh  cheek 
against  the  withered  one.  There  was  mute  ap- 
peal, mute  confession  in  the  fleeting  caress;  but 
the  old  woman,  all  her  fears  once  more  aroused 
and  clamouring,  perceived  nothing. 

"  You  got  t'  be— awful  keerful — o'  strange 
men,  honey,"  she  stammered.  '^  He — he  looks 
nice,  I  know;  but  you  don't  want  t'  b'lieve  nothin' 
he  says  t'  ye.  I  ain't  never  liked  t' — t'  tell  you 
how  dretful  wicked  some  folks  is.  Seems  too  bad 
t'  spile — all  yer  pretty  white  thoughts.     But — 


218  THE  HEART  OF  PHILHRA 

honey — sometimes — nice,  smooth-spoken  folks  '11 
tell  th'  blackest  o'  lies. — May  God  r'ward  'em, 
'corclin'  t'  their  works !  " 

''  But,  Gran 'mother " 

''  Yes,  honey;  yes!  You're  a-goin'  t'  tell  me 
you  know  a  heap  better  'n  I  do.  Young  folks 
al'ays  thinks  that.  .  .  .  An  oP  woman  like 
Gran 'ma,  what  c'n  she  know?  That's  what  comes 
int'  yer  min'.  You  can't  help  it.  .  .  .  It's 
natur',  I  guess,  t'  b'lieve  the  world's  made  over 
new  fer  every  generation.  But  'tain 't.  Lord,  no! 
Things  goes  on  'bout  th'  same.  You — you  won't 
b'lieve  nothin'  he  tells  you;  will  you,  Milly?  " 

The  girl  made  no  answer.  Through  the  open 
window  came  the  distant  mutter  of  thunder,  and 
Gran 'father's  grumbling  monotone,  as  he  gathered 
up  his  garden  tools : 

''Drat  th'  rain!  It's  a-comin'  sure,  an'  me 
a-thinkin'  b'  th'  feelin'  in  m'  bones  't  was  set 
fair  fer  another  two  weeks.  Looks  like  Gran 'ma 
'd  scared  it  up  jes'  t'  spite  me." 

Milly  dropped  a  light  kiss  on  top  of  the  old 
woman's  cap. 

"  Don't  worry  about  me,  Gran 'ma,"  she  mur- 
mured. "I'm  not  so  foolish  and  ignorant  as  you 
seem  to  think.    I — I'll  be  careful." 

She  was  gone  the  next  instant.  Mrs.  Orne  heard 
the  gate  slam  shut  behind  her,  and  her  husband's 
voice  upraised  in  shrill  warning  of  the  approach- 
ing storm. 


GRANDMA  OENE  SPEAIvS  HER  MIND    219 

"  Oh,  Lord!  "  she  quavered.  "  I  can't  see  an 
inch  in  front  o'  m'  face.  Mebbe  you  know  'bout 
that  fellow,  I  don't.  ...  It  does  look  like  the' 
wa'n't  no  use  o'  prayin'.  You  know  you  didn't 
lift  a  finger  t'  save  our  Milly — 'nless  lettin'  her  die 
was  savin'  her.  .  .  ,  We  don't  know  nothin' 
'bout  what  comes  after;  'n'  even  ef  it's  all  pearls 
'n'  gold  up  there;  'n'  folks  a-flyin'  'round  with 
wings,  a-wearin'  crowns,  'n'  a-playin'  on  harps,  it 
don't  seem  t'  do  us  much  good.  .  .  .  Ef  you 
don't  take  keer  o'  little  Milly,  I — I  don't  keer  fer 
no  harp,  ner  no  wings.  .  .  .  They  wouldn't 
comfort  me  none.  .  .  .  Don't  lay  it  up  ag 'in  her, 
Lord,  that  I  ain't  prayed  fer  s'  long.  .  .  . 
Mebbe  you  wouldn't  blame  me  none,  ef  you  was  t' 
re 'lise  what  I  b 'en  through.   .    .    .  Lord — Lord!" 

A  broad  flash  of  lightning  illumined  the  dark- 
ened room  and  the  bent  old  figure  rocking  back 
and  forth  distractedly  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  Why  in  creation  don't  y'  light  th'  lamp.  Ma?  " 
demanded  Grandfather's  wrathful  voice,  from  the 
door.  "  Here  I  be,  a-knockin'  m'  shins  up  against 
them  plaguey  cheers.  'N'  I  tipped  over  somethin' 
out  there.  Dunno  what  'twas ;  but  I  kind  o '  sensed 
things  a-rollin'  off  ont'  the'  ground." 

"  My  balls  o'  carpet-rags!  "  exclaimed  Grand- 
mother, brought  suddenly  back  to  earth.  ' '  Land, 
ef  ever  I  see  sech  a  man!  " 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  kerosene  lamp,  the  two 
old  people  gazed  anxiously  at  each  other. 


220  THE  HEART  OF  PHH^UEA 

''  Some  folks  is  a-goin'  t'  git  ketclied  in  this 
'ere  shower,"  quoth  Grandfather.  "  Hope  'twon't 
be  Milly." 

'^  Oh,  she  e'n  run  like  a  streak.  She'll  git  ther' 
b'fore " 

A  crash  of  thunder  dro^^^led  the  words.  Then 
followed  rain — rain  beating  upon  the  new  shingles 
overhead,  and  dripping  through  the  stark  rafters 
above  the  empty  bedroom. 

Mrs.  Orne  moved  slowly  across  the  floor. 

"  'Twon't  hurt  her  none  t'  git  wet,"  she  said, 
musingly.    ''  'Tain't  that  'at's  worritin'  me." 

''  Th'  lightnin'  's  'nough  t'  fright'  anybody,'* 
quavered  Grandfather.  ''I'm  'fraid  the  little 
girl'll  git  skeered  o'  th'  thunder." 

''  It's  good  fer  girls  t'  git  skeered,  onct  in  a 
while,"  muttered  Grandmother,  darkly.  "  Ef 
that's  all  I  was  'fraid  of.  .  .  .  Lord — Lord!  " 


CHAPTER  XX 

AT  THE  PARSONAGE 

The  solemn  rush  of  the  wind  in  the  evergreens 
came  soothingly  through  the  open  windows  of  the 
minister's  study,  where  Mrs.  Pettibone,  arrayed 
in  dust-cap  and  apron,  was  once  more  guiltily 
busy  in  a  surreptitious,  but  no  less  searching  and 
drastic  eradication  of  dust  and  debris.  Mr.  Petti- 
bone had  denied  himself  excursions  to  Boston  of 
late  that  he  might  cultivate  the  parsonage  vege- 
table garden,  and  in  his  visitations  to  the  sick  and 
sinful  of  his  parish  he  had  quite  properly  insisted 
upon  his  wife's  company. 

''  You  are  looking  tired,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
kindly;  "  you  need  the  fresh  air  and  quiet  of  these 
country  drives." 

But  on  this  particular  Saturday  morning,  when 
he  had  been  unexpectedly  called  to  leave  his  un- 
finished sermon  for  a  funeral  some  miles  distant, 
she  had  declined  to  accompany  him.  Mrs.  Wes- 
sels,  she  explained,  had  asked  leave  to  wash  of  a 
Saturday  this  week. 

The  minister  frowned. 

**  That  woman  is  always  in  the  way,"  he  said, 
with  entire  injustice.  ''  Why  not  let  her  wash  if 
she  wants  to,  and  you  come  with  me.    It's  a  lovely 

321 


222  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

day.  We'll  take  our  luncli,  eat  it  on  the  way,  and 
be  home  in  time  for  supper." 

She  shook  her  head,  with  the  gentle  stubborn- 
ness he  was  beginning  to  know.  The  prospect  of 
a  combined  picnic  and  funeral,  unique  though  it 
was,  did  not  blind  her  to  the  advantage  of  a  long 
day  in  which  to  work  her  will  upon  the  parsonage 
unhampered  by  his  presence. 

He  kissed  her  good-bye  hastily  at  last;  then 
spoke  words  of  strong  encouragement  and  ex- 
hortation to  the  protesting  old  horse,  who  was, 
it  appeared,  perfectly  aware  of  the  day  of  the 
week  and  the  illegal  nature  of  a  proceeding  which 
removed  him  from  a  leisurely  rumination  of  hay 
and  equine  thoughts  during  a  morning  sacred  to 
leisure.  At  the  moment  of  his  departure  the  gate 
clicked  to  admit  the  figure  of  Mrs,  Wessels,  un- 
naturally bulky  in  her  wash-day  attire  concealed 
from  the  public  eye  by  a  voluminous  skirt  of  rusty 
black. 

Mrs.  Wessels  was  found  to  be  overflowing  with 
explanations  and  apologies,  as  she  removed  the 
outside  layers  of  her  costume. 

''  Es  I  sez  t'  Wessels,  '  Mis'  Pettibone  won't 
care,'  I  sez.  '  It's  all  one  to  her  whether  I  come 
a-Sat'day  er  a-Monday.  The's  al'ays  dirty  clo'es 
t'  til'  pars'nage  t'  be  washed,'  I  sez.  Not  'at 
your  wash  is  any  dirtier  'an  other  folkses.  But 
go  where  you  will  in  this  'ere  world,  you're  sure 
to  find  dirt  t'  be  swep'  an'  clo'es  t'  be  washed. 


AT  THE  PARSONAGE  223 

Now,  ain't  that  so!  An'  tli'  Metli'dist  picnic 
comes  a-Tuesday  this  jea.v,  so  I  promised  tlie  cMl- 
dern  I'd  wash  their  clo'es  on  a-Monday,  so's  't 
they  c'n  go.  Yes,  Mis'  Pettibone,  the  childern 
go  t'  your  Sunday-school  mornins  at  nine-thirty 
an'  the  Meth'dist  Sunday-school  at  twelve  o'clock 
an',  when  I  c'n  git  'em  started,  t'  the  Baptist 
Sunday-school  at  four  p.m.  Yes'm;  I  want  'em 
t'  be  able  t'  jedge  fair  an'  square  's  t'  which 
r'ligion  's  best.  Georgie  he  likes  the  Meth'dists; 
th's  somethin'  kind  o'  hearty  an'  free- 'n '-easy  t' 
the  Meth'dist  Church,  Georgie  sez;  an'  M'ree  Is'- 
bell  likes  your  church  best,  so  I  guess  M'ree '11 
be  a  Presb'terian  all  right.  She  sez  she  ain't  got 
no  speshul  reason;  'n'  I  guess  't  would  be  hard  t^ 
find  one,  es  I  tell  her  pa.  But  he  sez  '  let  her  be, 
Ma;  we  won't  stan'  in  her  way,'  he  sez.  Wessels 
is  reel  int 'rested  in  r'ligion,  fer  all  he  ain't  dark- 
ened the  door  of  a  church  in  fifteen  years.  Wes- 
sels favors  th'  Babtists;  he  sez  it  stan's  t'  rea- 
son a  body  'at  'd  lived  wicked  ought  t'  be  put 
right  in  under  th'  water,  when  it  comes  t'  bab- 
tisin'  'em.  But  th'  childern  's  all  b'en  sprinkled 
a 'ready;  that  ought  t'  do  some  good,  I  sez,  spe- 
cial when  they're  little  an'  ain't  got  much  hair. 
But  M 'randy,  she  took  a  notion  all  by  herself,  when 
she  was  'bout  twelve,  t'  be  a  'Piscopal.  I  thought 
I  sh'd  die.  '  M 'randy  Wessels,'  I  sez,  '  the  ain't 
none  of  our  folks  nor  your  pa's  neither,  ever  b'en 
'Piscopals.     'N'  what  in  under  the  canopy  yoit 


224  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

want  off  them.'  I  sez.  '  The  'Piscopals  is  s'  sty- 
lish, Ma,'  she  sez ; '  an'  they  pernounce  their  words 
s'  nice,  an'  the  prayers  is  all  wrote  out,'  she  sez, 
*  so  you  know  b'forehan'  jest  how  long  they're 
goin'  t'  be.'  So  M 'randy,  she's  a  'Piscopal.  'N' 
I  dunno's  th's  anything  reelly  wrong  in  it.  But 
I'm  goin'  to'  do  up  her  white  dress  so  't  she  c'n 
go  t'  the  Meth'dist  picnic  a-Tuesday,  along  o' 
th'  other  childern.  Georgie,  he  sez  he's  lottin' 
t'  save  M 'randy  yit,  like  a  brand  plucked  f 'om  th' 
burnin'.  He  learned  that  t'  th'  Meth'dist  Sunday- 
school;  an'  th'  way  he  gits  it  off — with  M 'randy 
a-turnin'  up  her  nose  at  him — makes  me  think 
he'd  ought  t'  be  a  preacher  b'  rights.  Wessels, 
he  sez  Georgie  c'n  be  a  local  jus'  's  well  's  not; 
'n'  ef  he  starts  in  when  he  's  ten  he  c'n  be  a 
progidy.  He's  eight  now,  my  Georgie  is,  an'  ef  he 
ain't  cut  out  t'  be  a  progidy  I  dunno  who  is.  Well, 
I  guess  I'd  better  knock  on  wood  along  o'  that! 
It  's  a  lot  safer  when  you've  gone  'n'  bragged 
that-a-way  'bout  yer  childern.  It  might  save  'em 
f'om  goodness  knows  what!  " 

It  was  when  Mrs.  Pettibone  had  succeeded  at 
length  in  stemming  the  tide  of  this  Jordan  that 
she  found  the  rush  of  the  wind  in  the  evergreens 
so  exquisitely  soothing.  Other  sounds  reached  her 
from  afar:  an  intermittent  rattle  and  creak  of 
wagon-wheels;  the  shouts  of  children  at  play;  a 
soulless  performance  on  the  patent  piano-player 
across  the  street;  the  discordant  quarrelling  of 


AT  THE  PAESONAGE  225 

sparrows  about  the  eaves,  and  from  tlie  kitchen, 
happily  distant,  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Wessels  up- 
raised in  tuneful  exhortation,  timed  to  a  delib- 
erate rubbing  of  the  minister's  wristbands  on 
the  corrugated  surface  of  the  washboard: 

*'  Pull  fer  th'  shore,  sailor:  pull  fer  th'  shore!  " 

Philura  Pettibone  endeavoured  conscientiously 
to  keep  her  thoughts  from  hovering  about  the 
photograph,  hidden  from  view  between  the  leaves 
of  the  inky  blotter  on  her  husband's  writingi- 
table.  But  as  she  dusted  the  minister's  commen- 
taries and  theologies  in  due  sequence  of  their 
picturesque  but  no  less  disturbing  disorder,  her 
blue  eyes  wandered  thither  at  lessening  intervals. 
She  wondered  vaguely  why  he  had  not  chosen  to 
protect  it  by  a  frame  and  set  it  atop  his  table  in 
plain  view.  She  would  have  liked  (she  hoped)  to 
see  it  there.  She  might  even  have  ventured  to 
speak  of  it  to  him.  But  its  concealment  suggested 
a  secret,  unassuaged  grief,  not  to  be  shared  with 
another,  not  even — nay,  rather,  more  particularly 
not — with  herself.  She  pictured  his  face  as  it 
must  have  looked  when  he  placed  the  photograph 
in  its  secure  (as  he  no  doubt  supposed)  hiding- 
place.  For  another  to  have  seen  it,  even  by  acci- 
dent, was  like  pushing  aside,  without  sanctifying 
unction  of  sacred  oil,  the  shielding  veil  from  be- 
fore the  Holy  of  Holies. 


226  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

After  a  little  she  ventured  to  dust  the  blotter, 
her  fingers  light  and  hesitating,  as  one  might  touch 
the  dead.  His  half-written  sermon  lay  open  to 
her  view.    She  stooped  and  read : 

<' Then,  too,  the  memory  of  those  who  have 

outstripped  us  in  the  race,  passing  into  the  life 
more  abundant,  cheers  us  in  our  unending  strug- 
gle after  goodness  and  purity  and  truth.  We 
could  not,  indeed,  bear  to  think  often  of  those 
*  lost  angel  faces,'  were  we  not  faithful  to  the 
vision  which  is  vouchsafed  us  at  intervals,  like 
spaces  of  sunlit  blue  glimpsed  through  riven 
cloud." 

She  thought  he  must  have  looked  at  the  pic- 
ture before  writing  those  words.  Perhaps  his 
lips  (which  had  kissed  hers  so  carelessly  at  the 
moment  of  parting)  had  pressed  that  exquisite 
pictured  mouth,  with  its  half-smiling,  wholly 
wistful  curve. 

The  minister  had  shut  himself  into  his  study 
for  more  than  an  hour  that  morning  before  start- 
ing for  his  distant  appointment.  She  fancied  him 
pale  and  graver  than  his  wont  when  he  finally 
emerged  in  answer  to  her  summons.  Then  a  sud- 
den distressful  wonder  fell  upon  her.  Was  the 
picture  still  there?  or  had  he  taken  it  away  with 
him,  folded  close  against  his  heart  in  the  breast- 
pocket of  his  best  preaching-coat?  Her  fingers 
trembled  in  their  swift  search.  She  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief:  the  picture  was  in  its  place.    She. 


AT  THE  PARSONAGE  227 

wished  passionately  that  he  would  have  it  copied 
large  and  hung  upon  the  wall,  like  the  crayon 
portrait  of  the  first  Mrs.  Gus  Bogert.  But,  how 
could  she  bear  the  searching  gaze  of  those  dark 
eyes,  more  particularly  when  engaged  as  at  pres- 
ent, in  an  overt  act  of  disobedience.  She  felt  sure 
that  the  first  Mrs.  Pettibone  would  never  sweep 
and  dust  the  study  in  defiance  of  his  wishes — 
nor,  indeed,  any  room  in  the  parsonage.  Mary 
Pettibone  was  not  (she  reminded  herself)  that 
kind  of  a  woman.  Somebody — she  thought  it  was 
Mrs.  Deacon  Scrimger — had  once  said  in  her  hear- 
ing that  the  minister's  wife  was  a  slack  house- 
keeper. There  had  been  a  hired  girl  in  the  par- 
sonage in  those  days,  who  even  (it  was  whispered) 
made  the  bed  the  minister's  wife  slept  in  till 
ten  o'clock  of  a  morning. 

She  took  the  picture  from  its  hiding  place,  and 
stared  at  it  hungrily.  Then,  quite  deliberately, 
as  one  who  has  cast  silly  scruples  to  the  wind, 
she  crossed  the  room  to  the  little  mirror,  with  its 
cheap  mockery  of  sconce  and  candles.  The  mirror 
was  a  wedding  gift  from  her  Sunday-school  class. 
She  had  put  it  there  herself,  so  that  the  minister 
might  set  his  necktie  straight  and  push  back  the 
unruly  lock  from  his  forehead  the  last  thing  of 
a  Sunday  morning.  The  mirror  told  no  com- 
forting lies.  It  gave  back  to  the  second  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone a  small,  pale  face,  its  forehead  faintly  lined 
beneath   silvered  waves   of  abundant  hair,  blue 


228  THE  HEABT  OF  PHILUEA 

eyes  under  vaguely  marked  brows,  and  a  mouth 
with  Uttle  beauty  of  curve  or  sensuous  color. 
Feature  by  feature  she  compared  it  with  the  faded 
loveliness  of  the  photograph. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  expect  much,"  she  told 
herself,  relentlessly.  ''  You  are  only  to  piece  out 
with.  Didn't  you  know  that?  You  did  know  it. 
You  ought  to  be  thankful  for  the  chance  to  work 
for  him — to  cook  his  food  and  mend  his  clothes — 
yes,  and  clean  his  study  so  that  he  won't  know 
it  has  been  cleaned." 

So  absorbed  was  the  second  Mrs.  Pettibone  in 
these  bitter-sweet  reflections  that  she  did  not 
hear  Mrs.  Wessels'  trampling  footsteps  in  the 
passage.  But  she  started  violently  at  sound  of 
that  philosophical  lady's  voice  at  the  door: 

''  Well,  I  d'clare;  you  must  be  gittin'  deef !  I 
heerd  th'  door-bell  ring  a  couple  o'  times,  'n' 
thinks  s'l,  whatever  c'n  Mis'  Pettibone  be  doin' 
not  t' hear  that  bell!  At  last  I  come  m 'self.  It's 
a  lady  t'  see  you,  'm;  I  put  her  in  th'  parlour. . . . 
My!  ain't  this  room  a  sight, — with  th'  books  an' 
all!  I'll  whirl  in  an'  finish  puttin'  it  t'  rights,  ef 
you  say  so!  .  .  .  You  don't  want  I  should?  All 
right.  But  the'  ain't  nobody  knows  how  t'  do 
fer  him  any  better  'n'  I  do,  havin'  worked  here 
constant  sence  his  first  wife  died.  .  .  .  Yes ;  I  put 
th'  comp'ny  in  th'  parlour." 

Mrs.  Wessels  came  quite  inside  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 


AT  THE  PARSONAGE  229 

**  It's  tlie  young  lady  f'om  the  old  Eggleston 
place,"  she  said,  confidentially.  "  I  washed  up 
there  a  couple  o'  times  b'fore  Milly  Orne  come 
t'  work  fer  'em.  Land !  You  never  see  secli  clo'es, 
all  lace  an'  'mbroid'ry,  fussed  up  t'  beat  th'  band. 
My,  yes;  I  knowed  her  th'  minute  I  opened  th' 
door.  She's  in  th'  parlour  a-settin'  in  th'  plush 
cheer  b'  th'  window." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  slipped  the  photograph  inside 
her  blouse  as  she  crossed  the  hall.  Mrs.  Wes- 
sels  still  lingered,  her  lean  head  craned  forward 
on  its  long  neck,  with  the  obvious  intent  of  wit- 
nessing the  meeting  between  the  two  women. 

The  girl  was  sitting  very  straight  and  still  on 
the  edge  of  her  chair.  Mrs.  Pettibone,  in  the 
act  of  closing  the  door  quietly  but  firmly  behind 
her,  was  startled  by  the  look,  at  once  eager  and 
despairing,  on  her  young  face. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  remember  me?  "  the  girl 
said,  as  she  rose.    ''I  am — you  saw  me " 

''  Yes,  I  remember  you  very  well,"  the  minis- 
ter's wife  hastened  to  reassure  her  visitor.  "  You 
are  Mrs.  Walter  Hill,  from  the  farm.  I  am  very 
glad " 

"  You  are  mistaken.  I  am  not  Mrs.  Walter 
Hill,"  the  girl  said,  in  a  low,  hard  voice. 

She  had  thrown  back  her  head  with  its  heavy 
braids;  her  eyes  were  defiant. 

''  You  are  not "  faltered  Mrs.  Pettibone, 

overcome  by  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  older 


230  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

woman's  words : ' '  She  has  a  delusion.  She  thinks 
another  man  is  her  husband." 

"I  see  what  you  are  thinking.  I  suppose 
Mother  told  you  I  am  insane.  She  has  treated  me 
as  if  she  thought  I  was,  all  along.  I  don't  see 
why  I'm  not." 

"  Won't  you — sit  do^vn,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  sug- 
gested, nervously.  "We  can  talk  better  that 
way. ' ' 

Already  she  had  forgotten  the  picture  hidden 
in  her  blouse. 

"  You  will  let  me  talk  to  you?  The  sewing- 
woman — I  don't  know  her  name — said  you  would. 
She  said  you  could  help  me." 

' '  Oh !  "  murmured  the  minister 's  wife,  moving 
her  fingers  uncertainly.  "  You  must  mean  Mal- 
vina  Bennett.  She  told  me  she  was  going  to  work 
for  you." 

"  I  meant  to  drown  myself  that  day,"  the  girl 
said,  quite  simply,  and  with  as  little  concern  as 
though  she  had  mentioned  a  trip  to  the  city.  She 
did  not  appear  to  notice  the  other  woman's  start 
of  fear  and  amazement. 

''  I  had  been  to  the  edge  of  that  pool  often 
and  often  and — tried,"  she  went  on;  "  but  some- 
how I — couldn't.  I  suppose  I  kept  hoping  some- 
thing would  happen.  But  that  morning  I  just 
knew  nothing  would.    Life  would  go  on,  getting 

more  and  more  unbearable,  till So  I  ran  all 

the  way,  meaning  to  jump  in  and  have  it  over 


AT  THE  PAESONAGE  231 

witli  before  Mother  found  out  I  was  gone.  She 
has  watched  me  for  months,  night  and  day.  But 
Walter  didn't  notice.  I  don't  suppose  he  cared. 
I  shouldn't,  in  his  place." 

"  But — my  dear;  your — your  husband " 

''  I  told  you  Walter  wasn't  my  husband.  He 
is  my  brother." 

She  drew  a  deep,  half-suffocated  breath,  like 
that  of  an  exhausted  swimmer. 

''There!"  she  sighed,  "I've  told.  Yon 
wouldn't  have  guessed:  would  you?  Mother  said 
no  one  would  guess,  if  Walter  and  I — played  our 
parts.     We   couldn't — play   our   parts — so   very 

well;  but  Mother You  see,  she  didn't  believe 

me  when  I  told  her  I  was  married,  and  so " 

"  My  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Pettibone,  trem- 
bling violently  against  the  back  of  the  haircloth 
sofa,  "  do  you  think  you  ought  to  tell  me  all  this? 
Wouldn't  your  Mother " 

She  felt  suddenly  weak  and  ill,  and  her  voice 
trailed  off  faintly  into  silence  under  the  girl's 
black  gaze. 

"  Then,  it  isn't  true!  "  the  girl  broke  out, 
sharply.  "  The  woman  told  me  a  lie,  because  she 
was  afraid.    Everybody  has  told  me  lies !    Oh-h !  ' ' 

The  inarticulate  despair  in  her  young  voice 
struck  hard  against  the  older  woman's  pitiful 
cowardice. 

"  What  did  Malvina  Bennett  tell  you — about 
me!  "  faltered  Mrs.  Pettibone. 


232  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

"  She  said  you  knew  how  to  find  people  who 
were  lost.  She  said  you  found  your  husband  that 
way.  In  the — the  All-Encircling  Good.  But  it 
was  a  lie.  And  I've  told  you  for  nothing. 
Well " 

She  looked  down  quietly  at  the  floor,  thinking, 
perhaj^s,  of  the  dark  peace  of  the  pool  by  the 
rock. 

Philura  Pettibone  felt  the  sharp  corner  of  the 
photograph  prick  her  thin  breast.  It  seemed  to 
rouse  her  to  a  faint  realisation  of  the  tragedy 
under  that  still  face. 

'^  It  was  not  a  lie,"  she  said,  weakly.  ''It  is 
— true.  But  one  forgets,  sometimes.  I  did — only 
this  morning." 

After  a  little  she  added,  with  an  effort: 

"  I — I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  searehingly. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  it's  true  about  the — the 
All-Encircling — Good?  I  don't  know  what  that 
means;  but  I've  said  it  over  and  over  to  myself, 
and  somehow  it  made  me  feel — I  wanted  to  see 
you. ' ' 

Her  voice  was  choked. 

' '  None  of  us  can  know  what  the  All-Encircling 
Good  really  is,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  said,  in  a  low, 
hesitating  voice.  "  It  means — God,  everywhere 
present,  knowing  all  things " 

"I'm  not  religious,"  the  girl  said,  coldly.  "  I 
never  liked  church." 


AT  THE  PAESONAGE  233 

She  arose,  and  drew  her  scarf  about  her 
shoulders. 

"  I  might  have  known  it  was  only  that.  I  wish 
I  hadn't Oh,  put  it  down  to  my  insanity !  " 

She  laughed  aloud  as  she  walked  toward  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  stared  at  the  girl  aghast,  her 
back  rigid  against  the  haircloth  sofa,  her  hands 
seeking  her  heart  instinctively.  Again  she  felt 
the  slight  prick  of  the  hidden  picture. 

The  girl,  still  smiling  drearily  to  herself,  was 
about  to  pass  out.  Mrs.  Pettibone  watched  her 
fingers  close  upon  the  door-knob,  like  one  in  a 
painful  dream.  Then  all  at  once  she  sprang  up, 
alert,  alive. 

''  You  are  not  going,"  she  cried,  "  until  I  have 
told  you.  .  .  .  What  is  it  you  want?  " 

The  girl  turned  with  a  queer,  jerky  movement 
of  her  head. 

"  What  do  I  want?  "  she  repeated.  ''  What 
do  I  want?    Why  should  I  tell  you?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  took  the  girl's  limp  hand  and 
held  it  tightly,  as  if  she  feared  to  let  go. 

''  You  must  come  back  and  sit  by  me  on  the 
sofa.  I  shall  not  let  you  go  away  without  telling 
me." 

The  girl  sat  down  with  the  sullen  acquiescence 
of  a  child  accustomed  to  yield  to  a  superior 
will. 

''  You  will  tell  me?  "  urged  Mrs.  Pettibone. 


234  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

The  girl  made  no  answer.  Her  eyes  were  set 
drearily  upon  the  opposite  wall,  where  hung  a 
cheap  copy  of  the  Huguenot  lovers. 

"  If  you  want  anything — anything,"  the  gentle 
voice  went  on,  ^'  it  is  yours  already.  It  will  come 
to  you — whatever  it  is.  Because  you  wouldn't 
want  it — you  couldn't,  if  God  didn't  want  you  to 
have  it.  God  is  good.  He  loves  you.  He — knows 
everything. ' ' 

She  felt  the  girl's  hand  tremble  violently  within 
her  own. 

"  I  want — Stephen,"  she  whispered.  "  I — want 
him!" 

She  burst  into  hard,  racking  sobs. 

^'  Oh,  Stephen — Stephen!  "  she  moaned.  ''  You 
didn't  mean  to  leave  me  without  a  word!  You 
couldn't!  " 

All  at  once  she  dried  her  eyes  and  sat  up. 

**  I'm  going  to  tell  you  everything,"  she  said. 
*'  I  must.    You  will  believe  me." 

But  she  lapsed  into  silence,  staring  before  her 
at  the  picture  of  the  tall  lover  and  the  girl  within 
his  clasp. 

"  Stephen  looked  something  like  that  man  in 
the  picture,"  she  said,  after  a  long  minute.  ^'  He 
was  that  much  taller  than  me." 

Her  lips  fell  apart  like  a  child's. 

"  He  did  look  something  like  that,"  she  re- 
peated, wonderingly. 

After  a  pause  she  added: 


AT  THE  PAESOXAGE  235 

* '  I  had  a  photograph  of  him,  but  Mother  found 
it  and  took  it  away.  She  said  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed She  said  he  was  poor  and  com- 
mon-looking, and  that  I  might  have  known " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  sat  very  still.  Within  her  blouse 
she  was  conscious  of  the  picture.  She  felt  very 
much  ashamed  of  herself,  and  the  realisation 
forced  hot  blood  upward  into  her  face. 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  uncertainly. 

**  We  were  married,"  she  said,  "  by  a  regular 
minister.  But  I  didn't  know  the  minister's  name. 
And  he  didn't  give  me  any  paper.  He  said  he 
would  send  it  to  Stephen,  afterward.  But  he 
went  away.    So " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  sighed.  She  didn't  know  how 
to  ask  questions  skilfully;  but  she  felt  that  the 
girl  needed  help  in  telling  her  story. 

*'  You  mean  the  minister  went  away!  "  she 
suggested,  timidly,  "  and  without  giving  you  a 
certificate.  That  was  very  careless  of  him.  But 
there  should  have  been  other  papers — the  license 
and  the  Bureau  of  Vital  Statistics;  surely " 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

''  The  minister  didn't  go  away — not  that  I  know 
of.  I  meant  Stephen.  He  went  West  two  weeks 
after  we  were  married.  He  had  an  opening.  And 
as  soon  as  he  '  made  good  ' — that's  what  he 
called  it — he  was  going  to  send  for  me.  But  he 
didn't — I  never  heard  from  him.  I'm  afraid  some- 
thing— something  happened ' ' 


236  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Two  big  tears  escaped  from  lier  eyes  and  rolled 
swiftly  down  her  haggard  young  face. 

''  Sometimes  I  wisli  I  was  sure — he  is  dead." 

''  Oh,  my  dear!  "  protested  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

All  the  alertness  and  aliveness  of  which  she  had 
been  so  vividly  conscious  but  a  moment  before 
seemed  to  have  deserted  her. 

'^  I'm  sure  I  hope  not,"  she  added,  gazing  at 
the  girl  in  a  flutter  of  sympathy  and  alarm. 

*'  If  he  was  dead,"  the  girl  went  on,  gloomily, 
**  I  shouldn't  be  afraid  of  that  other — of  what 
Mother  thinks.    That  is  too  horrible!  " 

Her  voice  had  sunken  almost  to  a  whisper. 

''What— what  does  Mrs.  Hill "  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone attempted  to  ask.  The  words  seemed 
caught  in  her  throat. 

The  girl  laughed  harshly, 

"  That's  a  part  of  the  play,"  she  said:  "  our 
name  isn't  Hill.    But  it  makes  no  ditference." 

"  I — I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand,"  mur- 
mured the  minister's  wife. 

She  was  not,  indeed,  an  astute  woman.  Per- 
haps the  girl  was  insane.  A  little  fear  crept 
into  her  mind  as  she  reflected  that  she  was  alone 
with  this  big,  strong  young  woman. 

The  girl  stared  at  her  from  under  gathered 
brows.     Her  eyes  were  hard  once  more. 

"  If  he's — dead,  I  shall  never  hear  from  him. 
Perhaps  Mother  is  right,  after  all.  I  oughtn't 
to  have  told." 


AT  THE  PAESONAGE  237 

^*  He  isn't  dead,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  with- 
out premeditation. 

She  could  have  given  no  reason  for  the  sud- 
den strong  conviction  which  surged  up  within 
her. 

'^  He  isn't  dead,"  she  repeated. 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  breath. 

''  Then,  why — why  doesn't  he  write  to  me? 
Why  didn't  he — at  first?  You  can  see  how  ter- 
rible it  was  for  me,  when  I — I  found — I  didn't 
know  when  he  went  away.    He  didn't  know.    But 

when  Mother Oh,  it  was  awful !    She  said  I 

must  take  her  to  the  minister's  house.  But  I 
couldn't  find  it.  We  went  one  night  to  be  mar- 
ried, quite  suddenly;  it  was  somewhere  a  good 

ways  from  our  house.    I  didn't  notice Then 

Mother  said  I  had  been  deceived.  She  said 
Stephen  was  a  bad  man.  There  are — ^bad  men 
like  that,  she  said.  She  wondered  why  he  left 
me  at  home.  I  told  her  it  was  only  till  he 
'  made  good.'  Then  she — laughed.  .  .  .  She — 
laughed.  ..." 

*'  Have  you  written  to  him?  "  asked  the  min- 
ister's wife. 

"  Only  twice.  Mother  watched  me — watched 
the  mails.  She  said  she  would  save  me  in  sj^ite 
of  myself.  She  means  to  take  me  to  Europe, 
afterwards.  She  thinks  no  one  will  know,  and 
that  I  will  forget.  She  says  I  shall  have  my 
coming-out  party,  just  the  same." 


238  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  if  the  small,  low- 
ceiled  room  stiffled  her. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said.  *'  If  he  is  alive,  you 
think " 

'<  Pray  for  him  to  come  back  to  you,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Pettibone,  her  small  childish  face  up- 
turned to  the  girl's  stately  young  height.  "  Pray 
and  believe  that  he  will  come.  Believe!  It  will 
bring  him  back  to  you  from  the  uttermost — the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  earth!  " 

''  He  went  West,"  the  girl  said,  vaguely. 

She  was  looking  at  the  picture  of  the  Hugue- 
not lovers. 

^'  He  couldn't  be  bad,  and  look  like  that,"  she 
said,  in  a  low,  meditative  voice.  "  He  was  good. 
I  know  he  was  good.  I  couldn  't  have  loved  him ; 
could  I?  if  he  was  what  Mother  said." 

She  walked  slowly  to  the  door. 

"Walter  brought  me,"  she  said.  "I  asked 
Mother  if  I  might  go  out  to  drive  with  Walter, 
and  she  was  pleased.  She  wanted  me  to  go  be- 
fore; but  I  wouldn't.  She  thought  people  ought 
to  see  us  together.  But  we  both  hated  it.  Now, 
Walter  is — kinder  than  at  first.  He  said  I  might 
come  in  and  talk  to  you — tell  you,  if  it  would 
make  me  feel  any  better." 

She  opened  the  door. 

"I'm  going  to  try,"  she  said,  looking  back  over 
her  shoulder  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  think  I  shall 
pray — every  minute." 


AT  THE  PAESONAGE  239 

''  And  believe,"  added  Mrs.  Pettibone.  "■  You 
must  expect  him — soon." 

"  Is  that  wliat  you  did?  "  asked  the  girl,  pite- 
ously. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  nodded.  She  seemed  unable 
to  speak. 

"  I  shall  try,"  the  girl  repeated,  humbly. 
^'  Pray  and  believe.  Pray  and  believe.  Oh,  I 
did  believe;  but  it's  hard,  now!  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  watched  her  as  she  went  slowly 
away.  In  front  of  the  house  was  a  low  carriage. 
She  saw  the  young  man  she  had  known  as  Wal- 
ter Hill  step  out  and  help  the  girl  to  a  seat  within. 
Then  the  carriage  rolled  away  down  the  street. 

When  she  turned  to  go  in,  she  found  Mrs.  Wes- 
sels  standing  behind  her  in  the  hall,  her  thin  red 
arms  akimbo;  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  rapidly 
receding  vehicle. 

"  Well,  now,  I  never!  "  murmured  that  astute 
lady.  ''  He  handed  her  in  reel  nice;  didn't  he! 
Per  all  I  mistrusted  he  wa'n't  no  great  shakes 
of  a  hus'ban',  when  I  was  there  t"  wash.  He  was 
out  a  careenin'  'round  on  that  horse  o'  hisn  most 
all  day,  an'  she  a-walkin'  out  in  th'  yard  all  by 
her  lonesome,  her  ma-in-law  watchin'  her  out  the 
window  like  a  cat  would  a  mouse.  But  I've  seed 
men  that-a-way  b'fore.  They're  queer  critters, 
the  best  on  'em.  Now  ain't  that  so?  ...  I  s'pose 
you  ain't  re'lised  it's  past  one  o'clock.  Mis'  Pet- 
tibone.   When  the  whistles  blowed  fer  the  third 


240  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

time,  I  come  in  th'  hall;  but  you  was  both  busy 
with  yer  talk;  so  I  jes'  helped  m'self  t'  whatever 
I  c'd  find,  bein'  kin'  o'  worn  out  rubbin'?  The 
tea-pot's  on  th'  stove;  an'  I  left  a  piece  o'  pie 
fer  you." 

But  Mrs.  Pettibone  did  not  at  once  avail  her- 
self of  Mrs.  Wessels'  kindness.  Instead,  she 
went  back  into  the  minister's  study  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

''  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said 
aloud  to  the  silence,  which  seemed  all  at  once 
tolerant  of  her  weakness  and  kind,  to  the  point 
of  forbearance. 

"  I  am  ashamed." 

Having  made  her  small  confession,  thus,  she 
took  the  picture  from  her  blouse  and  slipped  it 
back  between  the  leaves  of  the  blotter. 

'^  If  you're  alive,"  she  whispered,  "  and  can 
see, — perhaps  you'll  understand." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  CONFESSION 

The  minister  came  home  from  the  funeral  that 
afternoon  rather  earlier  than  he  expected. 
Rufus,  he  stated  (referring  to  the  sorrel  horse), 
had  travelled  well  on  the  way  home.  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone  recalled  that  it  was  the  habit  of  Rufus 
to  travel  well  when  headed  toward  his  manger. 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  minister,  looking  narrowly 
at  her,  *'  you  haven't  been  working  too  hard  dur- 
ing my  absence." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  denied  Mrs.  Pettibone,  casting  down 
her  eyes.    ''  There  wasn't  much  to  do." 

From  his  ignorant  masculine  viewpoint  there 
never  was  much  to  do  in  the  parsonage.  How 
could  there  be,  with  only  the  two  of  themf  Nev- 
ertheless, he  continued  to  gaze  at  her,  a  puzzled 
look  in  his  kindly  eyes? 

"  Has  anyone  been  here?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  appeared  to  reflect,  her  eyes  still 
avoiding  his. 

*'  Yes,"  she  said,  with  visible  reluctance,  "  that 
young  woman  from  the  Eggleston  house." 

"  Indeed!  "  cried  the  minister.  ''  That  is  en- 
couraging.   I  was  hoping  we  might  get  some  hold 

241 


242  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

upon  them.  Tliey  seem — er — rather  unusual 
people." 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Mrs.  Pettibone,  "  thej^  are." 

She  moved  away  from  him,  her  thoughts  cen- 
tred determinedly  upon  the  kitchen. 

"  You  must  be  hungry,"  she  said.  "  I  will 
have  supper  early." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear;  I  believe  I  am,  now 
that  you  speak  of  it." 

He  turned  abruptly  toward  his  study. 

*'  I  shall  work  on  my  sermon  till  you're  ready." 
And  he  rumpled  up  his  hair  in  the  way  she  knew 
so  well. 

She  perceived  that  already  he  had  forgotten  the 
half-formed  questions  in  his  mind. 

But  seated  at  their  modest  supper-table,  he 
again  referred  to  the  matter. 

' '  Did  you — er — have  a  pleasant  visit  with  that 
young  person — Mrs.  Hill!  "  he  inquired,  as  he 
sprinkled  his  second  baked  potato  with  salt  and 
inserted  a  small — a  very  small — lump  of  butter 
in  its  steaming  interior. 

His  wife  did  not  answer;  and  after  a  pause  he 
spoke  again. 

"  I  recall  the  fact  that  we  found  the  younger 
Mrs.  Hill's  personality  rather  uninteresting; 
didn't  we?  She  seemed  very  young,  and — er — 
rather  sullen.  That,  at  least,  is  the  impression 
she  made  upon  me." 

He  glanced  inquiringly  across  the  table  at  Mrs. 


THE  CONFESSION  243 

Pettibone,  who  was  nervously  crumbling  a  slice 
of  bread  beside  her  plate.  She  was  not  the  sort 
of  woman  to  crumble  bread  in  so  aimless  and 
wasteful  a  manner.  He  continued  to  eye  her  with 
growing  astonishment. 

"  Did  the  young  woman  ask  for  me?  "  he  in- 
quired. ' '  I  am  apt  to  be  at  home  of  a  Saturday ; 
but  I  don't  recall  mentioning  the  fact  to  the 
Hills." 

''  Ought  I— to  tell  you?  " 

The  spot  of  colour  in  her  cheek  had  deepened 
to  scarlet. 

''  Ought  you  to  tell  me?     You  are  referring 

to Am  I  to  understand  that  something  of  an 

unusual  nature  took  place  during  my  absence?  I 
can  think  of  no  reason  why  you  should  not  tell 
me — everything. ' ' 

"  I've  been  wondering,"  she  said,  humbly, 
''  whether  I  said  the  right  thing.  I  didn't  know, 
at  first.  And  one  who  has  thought  small,  mean 
thoughts  for  so  many  years — I  did,  you  know.  I 
used  to  think  God  was  a  large,  severe  person  sit- 
ting up  in  the  clouds  somewhere  and  watching  me, 
always  displeased  with  what  I  did;  and,  yes — try- 
ing to  think  of  some  new  way  to  make  me  un- 
happy.    Of  course,  I  knew  I  deserved  it." 

"  You  didn't  tell  her  all  that,  my  dear?  "  de- 
manded the  minister,  who  had  forgotten  to  eat 
his  potato.     "  Surely,  you  didn't " 

"  No — no,  indeed!    I  said  she  must  pray  and 


244  THE  HEAKT  OF  PHILURA 

believe,  and  that  everytliing  would  come  right. 
I  said  he  was  in  the  All-Encircling  Good.  I  felt 
sure  he  was  alive.  I  don't  know  why;  but  I  did. 
And  I  told  her  so.  But  afterward — it  came  over 
me  all  of  a  sudden — if  he  should  be  dead ;  or  if 
he  was  bad,  as  Mrs.  Hill  seemed  to  suppose.  And 
one  can't  help  thinking " 

''  Really,  my  dear,"  interrupted  the  minister, 
*'  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  explain.  I  can  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  what  you  are 
telling  me.  Unless  you  explicitly  promised  the 
young  person  to  say  nothing  to  me,  I  conceive 
that  I  should  be  told,  at  once,  of  all  that  took 
place." 

Thus  encouraged,  she  told  him  the  substance 
of  what  had  passed  between  her  and  the  young 
woman  from  the  old  Eggleston  farm. 

He  listened  in  silence,  his  forehead  knit  in 
troubled  thought. 

"  If  I  told  her  what  wasn't  true,"  she  said, 
' '  how  terrible  it  would  be !    Perhaps  I  ought ' ' 

He  looked  across  at  her,  a  smile  dawning  in 
his  eyes. 

''  My  dear,"  he  said,  in  a  slow,  deep  voice, 
*'  could  any  facts,  however  disastrous,  alter  the 
nature  of  God?  " 

She  drew  a  half-sobbing  breath. 

"  I — I  suppose  not,"  she  murmured.  ''  But  I 
told  her — I  led  her  to  expect " 

<'  '  For  Thou  wilt  light  my  candle,'  "  he  quoted, 


THE  CONFESSION  245 

*'  ^  The  Lord  my  God  will  enlighten  my  dark- 
ness.' We  must  believe  that,  my  dear,  if  we 
let  everything  else  go  by  the  board." 

"  Do  you  mean ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  humbly. 

' '  If  our  own  candle  is  alight,  and  another  comes 
to  us  in  the  dark " 

Her  face  became  suddenly  illumined. 

''  I  see,"  she  said.  "  It  is  like  lighting  a  candle 
blown  out  in  the  wind,  and  one  ought " 

"  Obviously,"  he  said;  "  one  can  do  no  less." 

He  lingered,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pock-i 
ets,  a  musing  look  upon  his  face;  while  she  began 
removing  the  remnants  of  their  meal. 

"  That  explains  something,"  he  said,  after  a 
brief  silence,  "  something  which — er — disturbed 
me  unreasonably.  I  had  not  intended  speaking 
of  it  to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

' '  I  drove  home  to-night  by  way  of  the  old  Eg- 
gleston  road ;  and  as  I  rounded  the  corner  by  the 
big  oak  tree — you  know  the  i^lace — I  came  upon 
young  Hill  and  Milly.  They  were  talking  ear- 
nestly. And  as  I  passed  I  couldn't  help  noticing 
their  faces." 

She  uttered  a  slight  exclamation  of  dismay. 

''  The  young  fellow  was  Jflushed  and  eager — he's 
a  handsome  chap,  by  the  way — and  Milly — Milly 
had  been  crying,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not!  "  breathed  Mrs.  Pettibone. 


246  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Her  face  had  once  more  taken  on  a  look  of 
poignant  distress. 

''  Tut-tut!  "  said  the  minister,  smiling  down  at 
her.  ''  How  about  the  All-Encircling  Good? 
Doesn't  it  embrace  those  two?  " 

"  You  didn't  think  so,  till  you  knew,"  she  re- 
taliated. 

He  sighed. 

''  True,"  he  acknowledged.  ''  Oh,  the  body  of 
this  death,  and  its  cowardly  carnal  mind!  Well, 
my  dear,  I'm  not  fit  to  write  sermons;  but  it  ap- 
pears to  be  my  job.  If  it  wasn't  for  you,  and  your 
occasional  clear  seeing — you  see,  I'm  not  making 
you  too  perfect — but  if  it  wasn't  for  you.  Miss 
Philura,  I'm  afraid  I  should  oftener  miss  the 
truth  of  things,  altogether." 

Unwisely,  perhaps,  she  turned  to  face  him,  a 
wan  little  smile  curving  her  tremulous  lips. 

''  You  oughtn't  to  say  that,"  she  murmured, 
her  voice  shaken  with  the  hard  beating  of  her 
heart.  ''  You  wouldn't,  if  you  knew — everything 
about  me." 

She  tried  to  meet  his  gaze  unflinchingly.  But, 
alas!  Miss  Philura  had  never  quite  mastered  the 
gentle  art  of  dissembling.  Her  voice  broke  pite- 
ously  over  the  last  word. 

He  gazed  at  her  in  silence,  while  she  made  blind 
pretence  of  brushing  imaginary  crumbs  from  a 
spotless  tablecloth. 

'^  I'm  afraid  you've  been  working  too  hard  to- 


THE  CONFESSION  247 

day,"  he  said,  gently  drawing  her  toward  him. 
"  Come  into  the  study,  dear,  and  give  an  account 
of  yourself." 

But  at  the  threshold  she  drew  back. 

"  Not  there,"  she  begged,  rather  wildly.  ''  I 
— oh,  Silas,  I've  been  deceiving  you — all  these 
months." 

His  face  whitened  slowly.  "Well,  he  had  been 
afraid  of  it — had,  all  along,  been  conscious  of 
something  not  well  hidden  in  that  transparent 
breast  of  hers.  He  led  her,  all  shaken  with  sobs, 
to  the  shabby  old  sofa,  and  sat  down  at  her  side 
— but  not  touching  her.  God  helping  him,  he 
would  play  the  man. 

''  Now,"  he  said,  masterfully,  "  you  will  tell 
me  what  tliis  means.  Don't  be  afraid,  dear,"  he 
added,  with  a  gentleness  in  which  there  was  no 
touch  of  compulsion,  but  only  a  great  weariness, 
"  I  shall — understand." 

Already  he  had  passed  in  swift  review  the 
months  of  their  brief  engagement — of  their  mar- 
riage. Too  long  she  had  lived  the  life  of  a  clois- 
tered nun  (he  was  thinking)  to  bear  his  rude 
transplanting.  He  should  have  been  satisfied  with 
her  friendship,  which  she  would  have  poured  out 
for  him,  drop  by  drop,  with  delicate  frugality. 
But  now 

''  I — cleaned — your  study,"  she  began,  her  head 
hanging,  all  the  colour  gone  out  of  her  face. 

"  You— cleaned ?  " 


248  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

^'  Your  study — yes.  You  asked  me  not  to — - 
you  forbade  me.  But  I  did.  I've  done  it — oh, 
ever  so  many  times,  and  always  when  you  were 
away.  And  I  pretended — I  was  careful  to  ar- 
range everything — so  you  wouldn't  know." 

He  glanced  about  him  with  slow  bewilderment. 
Nothing  had  been  changed:  the  Simpkin's  Com- 
mentary on  the  Pauline  Epistles  lay  just  where 
he  had  left  it  the  day  before;  on  the  writing- 
table  were  the  loose  sheets  of  his  unfinished  ser- 
mon ;  and  on  the  floor 

"  You — cleaned "     he     repeated,    dazedly. 

''  Oh,  hang  the  study!  I  don't  care  if  you  turn 
it  inside  out  every  day — from  now  on.  What  I 
want  to  know  is — why  did  you  cry  when  I  said  I 
couldn't  write  sermons  without  youf  " 

There  was  another  matter,  as  he  soon  found 
out. 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  it  is  true,  wiped  her  eyes  and 
tried  to  smile  her  appreciation  of  the  splendid 
generosity  of  his  surrender  on  the  question  of  the 
study.  She  assured  him,  with  touching  earnest- 
ness, that  she  wouldn't  turn  the  room  inside  out 
every  day;  but  only  at  stated  intervals,  and  with 
the  same  care  and  attention  with  which  she  had 
guiltily  deceived  him  in  the  past. 

^'  But  you  haven't  answered  my  question,"  he 
persisted,  turning  her  small  face  up  to  his  and 
looking  deep  into  her  eyes.  "■  There's  something 
else;  you  must  tell  me  what  it  is." 


THE  CONFESSION  249 

She  was  mute  under  his  inquisitorial  gaze,  trem- 
bling a  little,  but  not  attempting  to  look  away. 

''  Tell  me,"  he  begged,  " — as  you  hope  for  our 
happiness!  " 

Thus  adjured,  she  began,  in  a  small,  faint  voice. 

''  One  day,  a  long  time  ago,  I  took  everything 
— off  your — writing-table. ' ' 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  a  smile  creeping  about  the 
corners  of  his  lips.  "  You  have  already  con- 
fessed to  that  enormity." 

"  I — I  dusted  your — blotting-pad." 

''  Well?  "  he  encouraged  her. 

She  drew  a  quick  breath,  gazing  at  him  in- 
credulously. 

"  You  didn't  mean  that  I — should  see.  I  had 
no  right " 

^' To  dust  my  blotting-pad?    Well,  possibly 


not.  But  I  hereby  grant  you  the  inclusive  and  ex- 
clusive right  to " 

The  look  in  her  eyes  stopped  him. 

"  Why,  what ?  "  he  began. 

She  arose  and  walked  steadily  to  the  writing- 
table.    He  followed  her,  in  perplexed  silence. 

"  You  didn't  mean  that  I — should  see — this," 
she  said. 

And  gave  him  the  picture. 

A  slight  exclamation  escaped  him  at  sight  of 
it.  Then  he  stood  quite  still,  looking  at  the  pic- 
tured face. 

She  was  seeing  it,  too — the  wistful  mouth,  with 


250  THE  HEART  OF  PHHLURA 

its  lialf-smiling,  half-sad  look  of  expectancy;  the 
loose  dark  curl,  lying  softly  upon  the  whiteness 
of  the  graceful  neck ;  the  deep,  questioning  eyes. 

Presently  he  sighed. 

''  You — found  this?  "  he  said,  looking  up  at 
last. 

' '  It  fell  out — ^when  I I  put  it  back.    I  knew 

I  had  no — right." 

Her  voice  trailed  off  in  a  minor  key,  infinitely 
touching  in  its  hopeless  appeal.  Her  shamed  eyes 
begged  his  forgiveness. 

''  No — right?  "  he  repeated,  gently. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  led  her  back  to  the 
sofa. 

''  My  dear,"  he  said,  after  a  silence,  which 
somehow  soothed  and  comforted  her,  *'  I  loved 
— Mary.  She  was  beautiful,  as  you  know;  and  I 
— I  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy  when  we  were 
married.    We  were — happy." 

He  sighed,  his  eyes  not  now  upon  the  joicture, 
but — as  it  seemed  to  her,  breathing  stilly  at  his 
side — afar  off,  intent  upon  some  distant  scene 
of  a  poignantly  regretted  past. 

He  roused  himself  after  a  little  and  looked  down 
at  her  questioningly. 

''  Did  you  suppose  I  had  hidden  it?  "  he  asked, 
with  entire  unexpectedness.  *'  And  that  all  this 
time  I  had  been  brooding  over  it — quite  in  secret? 
No,  dear;  I  shall  have  to  confess  I  didn't  know 
it  was  there.    Somebody — Mrs.  Wessels,  no  doubt 


THE  CONFESSION  251 

— must  have  slipped  it  under  the  blotter — long 
ago. ' ' 

A  quaint,  almost  humorous  smile  touched  his 
grave  lips  at  sight  of  her  awakening  face. 

She  stirred,  ever  so  little,  the  colour  stealing 
back  to  cheeks  and  lips. 

"  If  you  had,"  she  murmured,  "  I  should  not 
have  wondered — nor  blamed  you.  She  was  so 
beautiful;  and  I " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  You  are  very  dear,"  he  whispered,  "  and  I — 
I  love  you." 

Quite  unnoticed,  the  photograph  slipped  to  the 
floor  and  lay  there,  its  dimmed  loveliness  face 
down  upon  the  carpet. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  RAINY  DAWN 

*'  You  must  keep  this  door  shut." 

Milly  looked  up  inquiringly;  then  she  lowered 
her  eyes,  glancing  sidewise  at  the  small,  motion- 
less bundle  on  the  cot. 

^'  If  the  child  cries,"  Mrs.  Hill  went  on,  in  a 
slow,  harsh  voice,  ' '  the  mother  must  not  hear  it. 
She  is  too  ill  at  present." 

The  two  women  were  standing  in  a  small  room 
off  the  kitchen,  the  light  of  a  rainy  dawn  upon 
their  faces. 

'^  Shall  I — would  you  like  me  to  go  for  a  doc- 
tor? "  stammered  the  girl. 

She  stood  twisting  her  fingers  nervously,  trem- 
bling a  little  after  hours  of  dumb  terror  passed 
alone  in  the  big  kitchen. 

''  I  should  have  told  you  in  the  beginning  that 
I  was  able  to  care  for  the  case,"  Mrs.  Hill  said, 
coldly.  ^'  If  you  were  frightened,  I  am  sorry. 
The  child  is  healthy.    It  will  sleep." 

Milly  stole  a  swift  glance  at  her  mistress :  years 
appeared  to  have  passed  over  her  head  during 
the  night;  the  full,  pale  cheeks  had  fallen  into 
longitudinal  folds  and  wrinkles;  there  were  pur- 

253 


A  EAINY  DAWN  253 

pie  pouches  under  the  blood-shot  eyes ;  streaks  of 
white  in  the  smoothly  brushed  hair. 

''  There  was  no  time  to  call  a  physician,"  Mrs. 
Hill  went  on,  slowly;  "  you  know  that."  Her  eyes 
cajoled;  then  threatened.  "  The  event — was  un- 
expected. But,  fortunately,  I  have  had — experi- 
ence. My  daughter  is  perfectly  safe.  She  will — ■ 
recover.    You  need  feel  no  alarm." 

The  girl's  troubled  glance  again  sought  the  cot, 
in  the  midst  of  which,  with  a  singular  effect  of 
lonely  isolation,  lay  the  motionless  little  mound 
of  blankets. 

*'  Would  you — like  to  see  the  child!  "  asked 
Mrs.  Hill,  her  mouth  twisting  in  a  difficult 
smile. 

Milly's  breast  heaved. 

'*  If — you  please,"  she  said,  huskily. 

Mrs.  Hill  moved  toward  the  cot  and  stood  for 
an  instant  gazing  somberly  down  at  it.  A  lump 
in  her  broad,  bare  throat  seemed  to  move  a  lit- 
tle.   She  bent  down,  drawing  the  blankets  aside. 

*'  It  is  a  fine,  healthy  child,"  she  said,  dryly. 
"  A  boy." 

The  girl  gazed  at  the  little  head  covered  with 
dark  down;  at  the  tiny  i^ink  face,  with  its  closed 
lids ;  at  the  minute  fists  upheaved  on  either  side. 
Something  within  her  trembled;  the  breath  came 
from  her  parted  lips  in  light,  quick  gasps. 

Mrs.  Hill  replaced  the  blankets,  her  large  hands 
moving  swiftly. 


254  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 


i( 


I  am  going  upstairs,"  she  said.  "  I  shall 
come  down  presently  for  the  gruel.  Don't  burn 
it." 

Milly  moved  obediently  toward  the  stove,  still 
dazed  and  trembling  before  the  unveiled  mystery. 

"  You  must  keep  this  door  shut?  "  the  woman 
repeated,  sharply.  "  And  all  the  doors  between 
— keep  them  closed.    Do  you  hear?  " 

Milly  raised  her  eyes  from  a  blind  contempla- 
tion of  the  bubbling  stuff  in  the  saucepan. 

"  If — the  baby  cries,"  she  murmured,  "  shall 
I ?  " 

''  It  will  not  cry.  I  shall  attend  to  its  wants 
myself.  Do  not  come  upstairs.  Do  not  permit 
anyone  to  enter.  Do  not  speak  to  anyone.  The 
house  must  be  kept  quiet." 

Milly 's  lips  parted.  She  seemed  about  to  ask 
another  question. 

Mrs.  Hill,  darted  a  quick,  impatient  glance  at 
her.  Why  am  I  forced  to  explain  to  you?  it 
seemed  to  say. 

"  My  son  left  this  morning  early,"  the  tone- 
less voice  went  on.  "  He  will  not  return.  We 
shall  join  him  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Hill  is  able  to 
travel." 

The  door  closed;  and  Milly,  left  to  herself,  stood 
for  a  long  minute  quite  motionless  in  the  middle 
of  the  large  kitchen.  A  heavy  silence  seemed  to 
have  settled  upon  the  house.  Outside  in  the  wet 
grass  a  cricket  chirped  disconsolately;  a  stealthy 


A  RAINY  DAWN  255 

little  wind  crept  about  the  eaves,  whined  eerily 
in  the  chimney,  then  loassed  with  a  deep  murmur- 
ous rustle  into  the  dripping  hemlocks  which 
fringed  the  ruined  garden.  The  girl  pressed  the 
backs  of  both  hands  against  her  eyes,  like  a  child 
in  pain. 


CHAPTER  XXin 

PLAYING  MOTHER 

Philuea  Pettibone  walked  slowly  between  shorn 
meadows,  where  red  clover  was  beginning  to  bloom 
as  in  early  summer.  She  carried  a  basket  on  her 
arm  filled  with  fresh  eggs;  the  basket  and  the 
eggs  furnishing  a  legitimate  excuse  for  thus  walk- 
ing idly  along  the  country  road  where  there  had 
been  no  dust  these  many  days.  Heavy  rains  had 
washed  the  landscape  clean,  and  it  now  presented 
a  shining  morning  face  to  the  sky  where  capri- 
cious winds  drove  the  clouds  in  opposite  directions. 
In  the  rare  upper  air  small,  round,  white  fleeces, 
like  a  flock  of  lambs,  moved  slowly  westward; 
while  beneath  them  detached  masses  of  denser 
vapour  sailed  majestically  out  to  sea,  their  shad- 
ows flitting  over  meadow  and  hill  like  the  drag- 
ropes  of  gigantic  balloons. 

Mrs.  Pettibone's  face,  under  the  brim  of  her 
shady  hat,  shone  like  the  newly  washed  earth. 
She  was  as  happy  as  a  woman  may  be  who  feels 
herself  beloved.  And  this,  be  it  said,  she  needs 
must  know  afresh,  to-day,  as  well  as  yesterday, 
and  likewise  to-morrow,  till  winter  comes  and  with 
it  night. 

But  winter  and  night  seemed  very  far  away  on 

256 


PLAYING  MOTHER  257 

this  day  when  summer  forgot  that  it  was  August. 
The  woman,  whose  hair  was  already  a  little  gray, 
sang  under  her  breath  as  she  walked  along — a 
little  chirping  song  about  a  robin  in  a  tree.  Then, 
all  at  once,  she  saw  the  children. 

There  were  ten  of  them,  perhaps,  or  even  fif- 
teen. They  were  so  small  and  merry  in  their  pink 
and  blue  frocks,  and  they  ran  about  so  fast,  she 
found  them  hard  to  count  as  butterflies  about  a 
puddle.  The  largest  child — a  girl — spied  the 
woman  looking  at  them  across  the  fence,  her  face 
rosy  and  wistful  under  the  shady  hat. 

'^  We  can  play  in  this  meadow  now,"  the  girl 
said,  confidentially.  "  The  hay  has  been  cut  and 
there  are  no  cows  here.  And  to-day  there  is  no 
school,  because  our  teacher  has  gone  to  a  funeral." 

The  girl's  face  shone  with  pure  joy;  she  gazed 
at  Mrs.  Pettibone,  her  eyes  sparkling  under  wind- 
blown hair. 

''  That  is  very  nice,"  the  minister's  wife  as- 
sented, understandingly. 

"  It  was  her  Gran 'mother,"  piped  another  child, 
as  she  danced  up  to  the  fence.  ''  She  was  old; 
but  now  she's  gone  to  heaven,  and  we  can  play 
all  day.    I'm  glad;  aren't  you?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  nodded,  her  eyes  very  blue  and 
bright,  her  cheeks  pink  with  sudden  longing. 

"  If  I  might  come  in  for  a  little  while!  "  she 
murmured. 

The  biggest  girl  regarded  her  doubtfully. 


258  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

''  You  are  grown-up,"  she  objected. 

**  But  I  can  play." 

The  girl  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  the  pink 
and  blue  frocks  tumbling  over  one  another  in 
the  grass. 

"  Can  you  play  mother?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  blushed  up  to  the  margin  of  her 
silvered  curls. 

'^  Yes,"  she  said,  eagerly,  '*  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  You'll  have  to  climb  over.  We  climbed  over. 
We  were  going  home.  Our  teacher  said  we  must 
go  home.  But  it  is  a  plea'sant  day.  Our  moth- 
ers don't  expect  us  for  a  long  time  yet,  and  the 
hay  is  all  cut. ' ' 

Mrs.  Pettibone  climbed  over;  it  was  not  a  diffi- 
cult feat.  But  first  she  pushed  her  basket  through 
the  rails. 

"  What  is  in  your  basket?  " 

"  Eggs,  but  they  are  not  cooked." 

The  big  girl  turned  her  head ;  a  number  of  the 
children  had  scampered  to  the  fence,  and  were 
staring  at  the  intruder  with  sudden  gravity,  al- 
most displeasure  on  their  round  faces. 

''  She  has  eggs  in  her  basket,  but  they  are  not 
cooked,"  explained  the  girl.  "  I  said  she  might 
climb  over.     She  can  play  mother." 

The  big  girl  spoke  with  a  kindly  but  coercive 
authority. 

' '  I  shall  be  one  mother ;  you  will  be  the  other 
mother.     My  p'tend-name  is   Mis-sis  Alphonso 


PLAYING  MOTHER  259 

Smith.  .  .  .  Alplionso  is  a  beautiful  name;  don't 
you  think  so?  .  .  .  Now,  what  will  your  name 
be?  " 

''  Mrs.  Silas  Pettibone,"  submitted  the  woman 
in  the  blue  gown.  She  was  no  taller  than  the  big 
girl.  "  Do  you  thin.k  that  is  a  good  name  for 
a  mother?  " 

''  It  will  do,"  pronounced  the  girl.  ''  But  Silas 
is  not  so  beautiful  as  Alphonso.  Now  I  shall  have 
six  children,  'n'  you  can  have  five.  I  think  I'd 
better  have  the  largest  family,  'cause  I'm  more  ex- 
perienced. I  spank  my  children  when  they're 
naughty.    Do  you?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  considered.  Then  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  No,"  she  said.  ''  No;  I  could  never  do  that. 
I  sing  to  my  children,  and  hold  them  in  my 
lap." 

The  girl  cast  a  look  of  smiling  scorn  at  her. 

"  If  that's  the  kind  of  mother  you're  going  to 
be,  I'll  give  you  the  littlest  ones.  I'll  take  the  big 
ones.  My  mother  says  all  children  need  spanking, 
once  in  a  while.  "We  spank  our  dolls  an'  our  kit- 
ten, regularly;  don't  we,  Myra?  " 

''  Uh-huh,"  assented  a  small  child  in  a  pink 
frock.  ''  But  I  guess  I'd  rather  be  her  little  girl. 
I  like  to  sit  in  laps  an'  be  singed  to." 

"  All  right,  now  I'll  divide  the  children.    Your 

name  is  Myra   Pet What'd  you  say  your 

name  was  goin'  t'  be?  " 


260  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

*'  Pettibone,"  supplied  the  minister's  wife. 

"  Your  name  is  Myra  Pettibone,  an'  your  name 
is  Hattie  Smith,  an'  yours  is  Jennie  Pettibone, 

'n'  yours Come  here,  Georgie.    Do  you  want 

to  be  her  little  boy  ?  You  don 't  ?  Well,  then,  yours 
is  Georgie  Smith.  I  gaiess  you'll  have  to  have  all 
girls.  Mis'  Pettibone!    You  don't  care!  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  surveying  her  rapidly 
growing  family  with  entire  satisfaction. 

The  two  little  girls  had  huddled  close  against 
her  skirts,  and  were  staring  truculently  at  the 
Smith  family. 

"  Ma,"  whined  the  newly  christened  Myra,  who 
was  evidently  acquainted  with  the  rules  of  the 
game,  "  Georgie  Smith  is  puttin'  out  his  tongue 
to  me!  " 

The  big  girl  gazed  sternly  at  the  accused. 

''Georgie  Smith,"  she  exclaimed,  "do  that 
again,  'n'  see  what  you'll  get!  I'll  tell  your  pa, 
sir,  when  he  comes  home  t '-night!  That's  what 
I'll  do.  .  .  .  Now,  M'rie,  you're  Mis'  Pettibone 's 
next-to-the-youngest.  She's  a  nice  child,  Mis^ 
Pettibone;  an'  I'm  going  to  give  you  Baby.  I'd 
like  to  have  Baby  myself,  she's  so  cunnin'.  She 
doesn't  go  to  school  all  the  time;  but  her  mother 
was  canning  ras'b'rries  to-day  so  I  brought  her. 
Her  real  name  is  Louise  Gwendolen;  but  every- 
body calls  her  Baby." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  held  out  her  arms  with  a  smile, 


PLAYING  MOTHER  261 

and  Mrs.  Alplionso  Smith  gently  propelled  a 
chubby  child  of  three  into  them. 

'^  Now,  le'  me  see;  you've  got  Myra  an'  Jennie 
an'  M'rie  an'  Baby.    Do  you  want  another?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  thought  four  would  do.  She 
was  gazing  rapturously  at  Louise  Gwendolen,  who 
had  tucked  her  thumb  into  her  rosy  mouth  with 
an  air  of  drowsy  content. 

''  Well,  if  it  ain't,  you  can  have  another,  jus* 
as  well  as  not,"  promised  Mrs.  Alphonso  Smith, 
generously.    "  That  makes  me  seven." 

She  gazed  with  severe  benevolence  at  the  newly 
christened  Smiths,  who  were  cavorting  joyously 
amid  the  clover. 

' '  I  shall  cut  me  a  good  strong  switch,  first  thing 
I  do,"  murmured  Mrs.  Smith,  darkly.  ''  Seven's 
a  big  fam'ly  for  a  little  woman  like  me,  Mis'  Pet- 
tibone; more  especial  when  their  pa  has  gone 
to  Boston  for  all  day.  .  .  .  Now  you  must  tell 
what  your  hus 'ban's  doing." 

''  My  husband  is — I  think  he  is  writing  a  ser- 
mon," submitted  Mrs.  Pettibone,  realistically 
cuddling  her  youngest. 

"  A  sermon f    Is  he  a  preacher-man?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  nodded. 

Mrs.  Alphonso  Smith  looked  doubtful. 

"  That's  really  an'  truly,  isn't  it?  "We're  hard- 
shell Baptists.  That's  the  best  kind,  my  father 
says." 

She  tossed  her  head  carelessly. 


262  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  care.  You  can  be  a  p'tend- 
Pres'pterian,  if  you  want  to.  Now  your  house 
is  under  that  tree,  an'  your  yard  conies  to  here." 

She  marked  off  an  imaginary  Hne  with  her  toe. 

* '  My  house  is  under  this  big  tree,  and  my  yard 
is  all  that  place  over  there.  I'm  going  to  take 
my  children  home  and  put  them  straight  to  bed. 
And  you'd  better,  too.  Then  to-morrow  morning 
— ^we  don't  have  night  last  long,  'cause  they  won't 
lie  still — we'll  give  'em  breakfast.  You  can  have 
three  lunch-baskets.  I'll  send  one  of  my  children 
over  with  them.  You  can  p'tend  he's  a  grocery- 
man,  if  you  want  to.  You  pick  the  money  off  the 
bushes — nice  green  leaves ;  roll  'em  up,  so !  Looks 
exac'ly  like  money.  We  can  have  all  we  want. 
It  takes  lots  of  money,  Mis'  Pettibone,  to  bring 
up  seven  hearty  children." 

Mrs.  Alphonso  Smith  achieved  a  grown-up  sigh. 

*'  I  tell  my  hus'ban'  every  day  of  my  life  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  make  out;  the  children  do 
wear  their  shoes  out  so.  .  .  .  Now,  you  go  in  your 
house,  an'  to-morrow  first  thing  I'll  come  and  call 
an'  bring  my  two  youngest  children;  an'  then  in 

the  afternoon Georgie  Smith !  come  here  this 

minute !  I  see  I'll  have  to  spank  you  good,  before 
your  pa  comes  home.  Then  what  do  you  think 
he'll  say?  " 

Georgie  Smith  hung  his  head  before  the  terrific 
possibilities  he  had  doubtless  realised  in  the  not 
distant  past. 


PLAYING  MOTHER  263 

Experience  tauglit  him  to  say : 

"  I  wasn't  doin'  notliin',  Ma;  Marg'ry,  she 
pinched  me !  ' ' 

^'  Marg'ry  Smith,  did  you  pinch  your  little 
brother?  You  can  come  in  the  house  an'  go 
straight  to  bed.  You'll  get  no  cake  nor  pie  for 
your  supper,  Miss!  " 

Amid  realistic  howls  of  grief  she  turned  to  the 
less  experienced  matron : 

^'  You'd  better  take  your  children  right 
home.  Mis'  Pettibone.  P'rhaps  you  didn't 
'know  it,  but  th's  'ho  op  in '-cough  '  round  this 
neighbourhood;  I  thought  I'd  ought  to  tell 
you.  My  children  have  all  had  it ;  but  yours 
haven't." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  hastily  withdrew  with  her  flock 
to  the  spot  kindly  pointed  out  by  Mrs.  Alphonso 
Smith. 

*'  Up  in  a  tree,  Eobin  I  see,  pecking  them  one 
by  one,"  she  crooned. 

Baby  was  really  and  truly  sleepy;  she  crept 
into  her  p'tend-mother's  lap  and  pillowed  her 
curly  head  comfortably  upon  her  breast.  Her  lit- 
tle body  was  soft  and  warm;  one  could  hear  her 
sucking  her  thumb.  Gentle  thrills  of  rapture  crept 
over  the  p'tend-mother. 

' '  Cherries  are  ripe ;  cherries  are  ripe ;  oh,  give 
the  baby  one!  "  she  sang,  and  Myra  and  Jennie 
and  M  'rie  resting  their  heads  upon  her  skirt  shut 
their  eyes,  squeezing  them  tight  against  the  bright 


264  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

sunrays  that  darted  through  the  clustered  oak 
leaves. 

''  It's  night,"  whispered  Myra,  ^'  an'  we're  in 
our  cribs,  covered  up  snug  an'  warm.  I  said  my 
prayers;  did  you,  M'rie!  " 

"  But  you  have  to  say  prayers  to  your  mother,'* 
retorted  M'rie,  indignantly. 

"  Not  when  you're  p 'tending.  You  can  p'tend 
you've  said  'em  to  your  mother.  Let's  hurry  an* 
go  to  sleep;  so  't'll  be  morning  quicker." 

'^  We  haven't  had  any  supper.  I  want  my  sup- 
per b'fore  I  go  to  sleep.  Mother,  I'm  hungry. 
I  want  my  supper!  " 

''  Hush,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  slumber!  "  sang 
the  p'tend-mother,  tenderly.  "  Holy  angels  guard 
thy  bed!  " 

''  You  lie  still,  M'rie  Pettibone,"  counselled 
Myra,  energetically.  "  Don't  you  see  she's  play- 
ing we've  had  our  supper?  'N',  anyway,  the 
grocery-man  didn't  come  yet.  Maybe  Georgie's 
got  int'  the  baskets.  He'd  really  an'  truly  eat  up 
all  the  cake  if  he  did." 

At  this  awful  suggestion  the  three  little  girls 
sat  up  straight,  winking  the  sun  from  their 
eyes. 

''  It's  morning,  mother.  It's  morning.  Don't 
you  see  how  bright  the  sun  shines?  'N'  we're 
hungry.    Can  we  have  our  breakfast?  " 

''  You'll  have  to  go  to  the  grocery,  children," 
Mrs.  Pettibone  smiled  over  the  top  of  Baby's  curly 


PLAYING  MOTHER  265 

head.  "  Here's  the  money;  buy  anything  you 
want. ' ' 

' '  H  'm-m !  Jus '  see  all  the  money  our  mother 's 
got!  I'm  the  oldest.  I  shall  carry  the  money  and 
buy  the  things." 

^'  You  are  not  the  oldest,  I  shall  buy  the  break- 
fast.   I  was  seven  last  May." 

<'  'N'  I  was  seven  jus'  las'  week.  I  am  so  the 
oldest.    So  there!  " 

The  sound  of  a  slap  vigorously  dealt,  followed 
by  really  and  truly  crying,  brought  Mrs.  Alphonso 
Smith  to  the  scene. 

She  separated  the  combatants  with  a  practised 
hand. 

''  That's  what  you  get  from  being  too  good  to 
your  children,"  she  explained  to  the  perturbed 
Mrs.  Pettibone.  ''  You  want  to  take  'em  right  in 
the  beginnin'  an'  give  'em  somethin'  to  cry  for. 
What  are  you  quarrelling  about,  children?  If 
your  own  mother  can't  manage  you,  the  neigh- 
bours'11  have  to  come  in  an'  help.  .  .  .  You're 
both  seven!  Course  you  are!  You're  twins; 
didn't  you  know  that?  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  But 
you  are.  You  can  both  carry  the  money,  and 
you  can  both  bring  home  the  groceries;  and  if 
I  hear  you  cry  again,  Jennie  an'  Myra — unless 
it's  p'tend-cryin' — you'll  find  your  name  changed 
to  Smith,  all  of  a  sudden.  I  got  a  good  switch 
to  my  house,  an'  seven  or  nine,  makes  no  differ- 
ence to  me.    I'll  take  'em  any  time  you  say.  Mis' 


266  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

Pettibone,  an'  trade  you  Hattie  for  'em.  She's 
a  good  girl  an'  minds  her  mother." 

The  hastily  matched  twins,  amicably  holding 
hands,  trotted  away  nnder  convoy  of  Mrs.  Al- 
phonso  Smith.  The  third  child,  with  a  shrewd 
glance  at  the  absorbed  face  of  the  p 'tend-mother, 
followed. 

''  She  don't  care,  as  long's  she's  got  Baby," 
she  told  the  biggest  girl.  "  She's  huggin'  an' 
kissin'  Baby  soft,  like  she  was  her  really-truly 
mother. ' ' 

"  Oh,  well,"  assented  the  resourceful  Mrs.  Al- 
phonso  Smith.  "  You  can  be  my  next-t '-the '- 
youngest  little  girl,  if  you'd  rather.  I'll  take  the 
twins,  too.  She  can  p'tend  she's  got  an  only 
child.    I'd  jus'  s'  soon  have  ten." 

The  p 'tend-mother  under  the  oak-tree  was  re- 
velling in  her  dream.  The  delicious  feel  of 
the  round,  soft  limbs;  the  silken  mass  of  curls 
against  her  cheek;  the  warm  breath  coming  and 
going  between  parted  lips  which  resembled  the 
half-closed  bud  of  a  pink  rose,  filled  her  with 
rapture. 

"  My  little  baby,"  she  whispered.  ''  Mother's 
own  precious  little  baby!  " 

The  starved  breast  under  the  baby's  warm  cheek 
throbbed  with  the  passionate  beating  of  the  heart 
beneath.  There  was  no  other  woman  near  to  re- 
gard her  with  half-contemptuous  eyes  of  wonder 
and  pity.     They  were  alone — these  two — in  the 


PLAYING  MOTHER  267 

wide,  sweet-smelling  world,  with  bees  in  the  red 
clover  and  the  voices  of  meadow-larks  calling  and 
answering  under  the  drifting  clouds. 

How  long  she  sat  thus,  folded  in  the  warm  hap- 
piness of  that  dream  of  motherhood,  Philura  Pet- 
tibone  never  knew.  She  was  roused  at  last  by  a 
man's  voice. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am;  I  asked  the  chil- 
dren playing  in  the  road,  and  they  couldn't  tell 
me " 

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  from  which  the  vision 
had  not  yet  fled  blue  as  corn-flowers  under  the 
brim  of  her  shady  hat. 

''I'm  afraid  I've  waked  your  baby,"  he  apolo- 
gised, with  a  smile. 

He  seemed  of  a  commanding  height  viewed 
from  her  lowly  seat  under  the  tree ;  and  now  that 
the  smile  had  faded  from  his  young  face,  she 
saw  that  it  was  pale  and  anxious. 

**  Can  you  tell  me  where  a  family  called  Hill 
— I  believe  they  are  strangers  in  the  neighbour- 
hood— are  living?  '^ 

The  child  slipped  from  her  arms  and,  looking 
around  the  empty  field  with  wide,  startled  eyes, 
began  to  cry  piteously. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  repeated;  "  I  seem  to  have 
frightened  your  baby.  But  you  can  tell  her  I  will 
go  at  once." 

His  face  was  oddly  familiar,  now  that  she  looked 
at  it  more  narrowly.    Where  had  she  seen  those 


268  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

strongly  marked  brows,  and  the  stern  curve  of  the 
young  lips? 

He  went  away,  when  at  length  she  had  satisfied 
him  with  minute  directions  of  a  turn  to  the  right, 
two  to  the  left,  a  bridge  to  be  crossed,  and  stone 
gate-posts,  opposite  a  red  barn.  Her  puzzled  eyes 
followed  him  as  he  strode  to  the  fence.  He  was 
in  haste,  whatever  his  name  or  business.  .  .  . 

She  walked  home  under  the  noonday  sun,  with 
a  guilty  sense  of  furniture  undusted,  a  pudding, 
which  was  to  be  and  was  not,  and  of  a  basket  filled 
with  mending,  which  ought  on  this  particular  day 
of  the  week  to  be  empty.  At  the  door  she  was 
met  by  her  husband,  his  hair  rumpled  pictur- 
esquely upon  his  forehead  in  a  way  which  signified 
that  work  in  the  study  had  gone  smoothly  that 
morning. 

"  How  very  nice  you  look,  dear,"  he  said,  tilt- 
ing her  face  all  luminous  with  afterglow  up  to  his. 
And  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  though  such  was  not 
his  sober  habit. 

'*  Oh!  Silas,"  she  murmured,  blushing,  "  I 
should  have  been  home  long  ago;  but  I — came 
upon  some  children  in  a  meadow." 

"  Some  children  in  a  meadow,"  he  repeated, 
when  she  showed  no  inclination  to  explain  further. 
*'  That  sounds  pleasant.    And  you ?  " 

"  I  climbed  over  the  fence  and — and — played 
with  them,"  she  confessed,  her  eyes  downcast 
before  the  quizzical  smile  in  his. 


PLAYING  MOTHER  269 

That  afternoon,  as  with  furtive  dustcloth  she 
was  hurriedly  attempting  to  make  good  the  omis- 
sions of  the  morning,  she  beheld  the  majestic  fig- 
ure of  Mrs.  Buckthorn  moving  up  the  walk. 

"  I  just  stopped  in  on  my  way  t'  see  poor  Mis' 
Pratt,"  began  that  lady,  with  a  searching  glance 
about  the  room.  .  .  .  ''  What!  You  haven't  heard 
she  'd  had  another  of  her  spells  ?  Yes,  I  know  she 
was  'bout-as-usual  yesterday;  but  in  the  after- 
noon      My,  yes1     I  thought  of  course  you^d 

heard,  and  Mr.  Pettibone.  .  .  .  They  didn't  send 
for  him?  I  s'pose  they  was  too  busy  doin'  fer 
her.  But  they'll  expect  him  to  call.  It's  a  pas- 
ter's dooty  an'  priv'lege;  an'  he'd  ought  t'  know, 
without  being  sent  for,  where  he's  wanted." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  drew  a  sibilant  breath  from 
the  interior  of  her  being,  accompanied  by  a  sol- 
emn creaking  of  her  stays. 

"  I  don't  know  as  you  re'lise,  Philura,  that  if 
you  ain't  careful  an'  prayerful  you  might  actooaly 
hender  the  work  that's  bein'  carried  on  in  our 
midst,  'stead  of  helpin'  it — as  you'd  ought  to  do. 
Did  you  ever  think  of  that?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  stole  a  guilty  look  at  the  spot 
where  she  had  concealed  the  dustcloth  behind  a 
sofa-pillow.  Mrs.  Blackthorn  found  her  mur- 
mured reply  far  from  satisfying, 

"  I  see  you  ain't,"  she  observed,inhollowtones. 
*'  I  was  afraid  of  it.  I  sez  t'  the  Deacon  this 
mornin'.    *  It's  borne  in  upon  me,'  I  sez,  '  that, 


270  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

however  painful,  I'd  ought  t'  have  a  heart-t'- 
heart-talk  with  Philura  Pettibone.  No,'  I  sez, 
*  don't  try  to  hold  me  back.  Philura  was  a  scholar 
in  my  Sunday-school  class  fer  many,  many  years,' 
I  sez,  '  an'  little  I  thought  in  them  days,  when  his 
first  wife  was  livin',  that  I  sh'd  ever  see  her  in 
the  pars'nage.'  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone 's  eyes,  uplifted  from  a  depressed 
contemplation  of  the  dusty  round  of  a  chair,  fell 
upon  the  picture  of  the  Huguenot  Lovers  on  the 
opposite  wall.  A  wandering  sun-ray,  piercing  the 
leafy  mazes  of  a  lilac  bush  just  outside  the  win- 
dow, flickered  tremulously  over  the  two  young 
faces,  forever  rapt  in  the  sweet  pain  of  that  tragic 
parting. 

"  Oh !  "  she  murmured,  indistinctly,  her 
thoughts  bearing  her  far  from  Mrs.  Buckthorn's 
massive  presence  and  the  droning  sound  of  her 
intolerant  voice.  Had  the  stranger  of  the  morn- 
ing's encounter  found  the  Eggleston  farm?  she 
wondered;  and  could  it  be ? 

"  Faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend,"  her 
visitor  was  reminding  her  acidly.  "  I  s'pose 
likely  you'd  ruther  not  think  much  about  her, 
more  especial  's  you  can't  hold  a  candle  t'  her  in 
looks.  That's  perfec'ly  natural,  I'm  sure.  We 
can't  all  be  han'some,  Philura;  but  we  can  all 
strive  t'  do  our  dooty." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SYLVIA'S  CHILD 

Morning  of  the  next  day,  marked  by  no  evasion 
of  housewifely  duty,  found  Mrs.  Pettibone  busy 
in  the  compounding  of  a  certain  cake,  which  her 
lord  had  once  approved,  and  which  called  for  the 
frugal  outlay  of  but  a  single  egg  and  a  solitary 
sjooonful  of  butter.  As  the  egg-whisk  struck  the 
bottom  of  the  bowl  in  a  brisk  patter  of  sound  she 
became  aware  of  a  shufSing  step  outside,  and 
glancing  up  beheld  Grandfather  Orne  apologeti- 
cally wiping  his  feet  upon  the  door-mat. 

"  Dunno's  I'm  so  t'  say  muddy,  ner  yet  dusty," 
he  began.  ''  But  Gran'ma,  she's  got  me  trained, 
so  't  I  don't  das'  t'  walk  in  on  no  floor  'ithout 
wipin'.  '  I  wonder  if  th's  door-mats  in  heav'n,' 
I  sez.  But  Gran'ma,  she  sez,  '  No.  Them  Golden 
Streets  is  kep'  clean  'nough  t'  eat  off  of,'  she 
sez,  .  .  .  Tes'm,  I'll  set  down  a  minute,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

The  old  man  disposed  himself  in  the  wooden 
chair  the  minister's  wife  set  for  him,  with  con- 
siderable ceremony  and  a  vast  deal  of  clearing 
his  throat.  He  had  come  to  tell  her  something, 
she  knew;  but  familiar  with  the  ways  of  the 
countryside  she  went  on  compounding  the  cake, 

271 


272  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

her  rapid  spoon  beating  its  staccato  rhythm 
against  the  sides  and  bottom  of  the  bowl. 

"  Milly  come  down  f  om  th'  farm  this  momin','' 
chirped  Grandfather,  clutching  his  old  straw  hat 
with  both  heavy  hands,  as  if  he  feared  it  would 
escape  him. 

''Did  she?  " 

"  Yes'm;  she  come  down,  bare-headed  'n'  all 
out  o'  breath." 

The  old  man  stared  unwinkingly  at  the  cake- 
tin,  into  which  the  minister's  wife  was  carefully 
pouring  the  yellow  mixture. 

"  Her  Gran 'ma  was  some  s 'prised  t'  see  her." 

"  She  must  have  been." 

"  Seems  th'  young  lady's  lit  out,  unexpected." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  hastily  set  down  her  bowl. 

"  The  young  lady?    Do  you  mean " 

"  Her  'at  was  young  Mis'  Hill.  Milly  come 
down  t'  ask  us,  did  we  see  her  a-goin'  by?  I  guess 
the's  b'en  some  cur 'us  doin's  up  t'  th'  farm.  The 
young  man,  he  went  off  a  week  ago.  'N'  Milly 's 
b'en  there  alone  with  'em.  We  thought  mebbe 
you  didn't  know.  Somebody  'd  ought  t'  go  up 
there.  Gran 'ma  she  sez  t'  me,  '  Go  down  an'  tell 
th'  minister's  wife.  Gran 'pa?  '  she  seiz.  So  I 
dropped  m'  hoe  an'  come,  jus'  's  I  was.  Beats 
all,  how  anybody  c'd  git  right  up  out  o'  bed  an' 
clear  out,  so  't  nobody  c'd  trace  'em." 

"  Out  of  bed?  "  repeated  the  minister's  wife, 
dazedly. 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  273 

She  walked  across  tlie  floor  and  quite  without 
knowledge  of  what  she  did  opened  the  oven  door 
and  set  her  cake  inside. 

"  Mebbe  she  was  settin'  up.  Milly,  she  wa'n't 
allowed  t'  do  nothin'  outside  th'  kitchen;  so  she 
couldn't  say  's  t'  what  was  goin'  on  upstairs. 
But  the  ol'  lady;  she  was  down  in  th'  back  room 
fer  quite  a  spell  this  mornin'  doin'  fer  th'  baby; 
'n'  it  must  'a'  b'en  while  she  was  gone  'at  th' 
young  lady " 

"  What! — Did  you  say  there  was  a  baby?  "  in- 
quired Mrs.  Pettibone. 

The  face  she  turned  upon  the  old  man  was  pink 
with  excitement ;  her  hands  gripped  her  apron. 

"  Why,  yes'm,  'n'  she  was  washin'  'n'  dressin' 
it,  mebbe.  Milly  sez  it's  an'  awful  cute  baby; 
it's  'bout  a  week  old,  I  sh'd  say.  .  .  .  You  hadn't 
heerd  of  it.  Ma'am?  Well,  I  guess  nobody  had. 
'Twas  kep'  kin'  o'  quiet.  Even  Gran 'ma,  she 
didn't  know,  till  she  went  up  t'  see  what'd  be- 
come o'  Milly.  Gran 'ma,  she's  a  great  han'  t' 
fret  an'  worry,  'n'  them  folks  up  there " 

Grandfather  Orne  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  1  heerd  Milly  a-tellin'  her  Gran 'ma  th'  baby 
'd  never  b'en  took  upstairs." 

He  shuffled  to  his  feet,  and  gazed  frowningly 
into  the  crown  of  his  hat. 

''  Ef  I  was  you,  Ma'am,  I  dunno  but  what  I'd 
go  up  there  'n'  kind  o'  look  th'  sitoation  over — 
bein'   's  you're  the  minister's  wife.     Milly,  she 


274  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

don't  seem  t'  feel  reel  easy  in  lier  mind,  an'  her 
Gran 'ma — wall,  Ma'am,  you  know  what  kind  of 
a  critter  Gran 'ma  is,  always  a-worritin'  an' 
champin'  o'  her  bit.  An'  'tis  queer  fer  a  sick 
lady  t' " 

But  the  mistress  of  the  kitchen  had  disappeared. 
He  heard  the  quick  tread  of  her  feet  in  the  room 
beyond,  a  door  opening  and  shutting,  and  the 
sound  of  voices. 

^'  Seems  kind  of  'xcited,"  mused  Mr.  Orne. 
''  Wall,  let  a  man  say  the  word  '  baby  '  t'  most 
any  woman,  'n'  she'll  fly  'round  like  a  turkey  on 
a  hot  rock." 

He  moved  slowly  toward  the  door,  his  mouth 
twisted  in  a  dubious  smile. 

^'  Cur 'us  critters — women-folks,"  he  muttered. 
''  Th'  older  I  git,  th'  more  they  seem  that-a-way 
t'  me.    Onreas'n'ble,  es  a  rule,  'n' — 'n'  brash.'* 

And,  with  this,  his  errand  having  been  accom- 
plished, Grandfather  Orne  returned  to  the  culti- 
vation of  his  late  vegetables,  which  had  been  so 
suddenly  interrupted  by  the  unlooked-for  appari- 
tion of  his  grand-daughter.  Late  vegetables,  such 
as  cabbages  and  beets,  set  in  solid,  respectable 
phalanxes,  soothed  his  aged  nerves.  One  could 
depend  upon  them  in  a  world  of  chance  and  change, 
wherein  women-folks  abounded,  and  where  unex- 
pected and,  for  the  most  part,  disagreeable  things 
were  always  happening.  A  cabbage,  he  reflected 
vaguely,  was  always  a  cabbage,  round,  green — or 


SYLVLl'S  CHILD  275 

purple,  as  the  case  might  be — imperturbable.  One 
might  say  anything  to  a  cabbage — and  one  fre- 
quently did — without  a  resultant  tremor  of  a  cool, 
crisp  leaf.  .  .  . 

The  Eeverend  Silas  Pettibone,  having  listened 
attentively  to  his  wife's  agitated  interpretation 
of  Grandfather  Orne's  message,  laid  down  his  pen 
without  a  iDrotest.  But  he  was  far  from  following 
the  rapid  flight  of  her  imagination. 

"  You  tell  me  a  man  asked  you  yesterday  to 
direct  him  to  the  old  Eggleston  place ;  has  it  oc- 
curred to  you  that  he  might  have  been  a  sewing- 
machine  agent  and,  therefore,  not  at  all  connected 
with  the  disappearance  of " 

**  Silas!  "  protested  his  wife.  "  A  sewing- 
machine  agent!  He  was  young,  tall,  and  very 
good-looking. ' ' 

The  minister  smiled  and  rumpled  his  hair 
controversially. 

''  I  will  harness  the  horse,"  he  said;  "  but  I 
cannot  forbear  reminding  you,  my  dear,  that  sew- 
ing-machine agents  are  quite  as  likely  to  be  young, 
tall,  and  good-looking  as  other  men.  More  so,  in 
fact;  the  occupation  it  would  seem  appeals  to 
youth;  and  youth " 

But  she  had  already  hurried  away  to  put  on 
her  hat. 

As  he  urged  the  indignant  sorrel  horse  along 
the  road  as  rapidlj^  as  the  animal's  outraged  feel- 
ings would  permit,  Mr.  Pettibone  was  inwardly 


276  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

perturbed  by  the  look  on  his  wife's  face.  He  had 
seen  it  there  before;  but  being,  despite  his  call- 
ing, imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  heart  of 
woman  he  did  not  recognise  it  for  what  it  was. 

''  You  shouldn't  worry  too  much  about  the 
young  woman,"  he  offered.  "  She  might,  you 
know,  have  wandered  out  into  the  woods  for  an 
airing,  and — er — turned  up  long  ago,  quite  safe 
and — er — none  the  worse  for " 

She  shot  him  a  pitying  look. 

''I'm  not  thinking  about  her/'  she  said. 

"What,  then!  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone's  hands  in  their  much-mended 
lisle-thread  gloves  closed  tightly  upon  each  other. 

"  If  there  is — a  baby,"  she  murmured,  tremu- 
lously. 

"  That  appears  to  be  an  incontrovertible  prem- 
ise," he  admitted. 

"  And  if — she  didn't  know " 

"  My  dear  Philura,"  he  smiled,  "  what  an  ex- 
traordinary imagination  you  are  developing  of 
late." 

He  patted  the  tense  little  hand  nearest  him, very 
kindly  but  firmly,  as  if  in  his  judgment  the  proc- 
ess of  which  he  had  spoken  would  better  cease. 

"  If  she  has  gone — without  knowing "  per- 
sisted Mrs.  Pettibone,  not  appearing  to  notice 
the  veiled  protest. 

He  spoke  sharply  to  the  horse,  who  had 
taken  advantage  of  the  conversation  to  relax  into 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  277 

a  shambling-  gait,  expressive  of  his  sentiments 
toward  his  master  and  the  world  at  large,  which 
he  appeared  to  view  with  equine  displeasure.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  in?  "  he  asked,  as  he 
presently  assisted  her  to  alight  before  the  old  Eg- 
gleston  house,  "  or  do  you  prefer ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  timidly 
up  at  the  shuttered  windows. 

*'  I — don't  know,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  Perhaps, 
she — perhaps  I " 

''  Precisely,"  assented  the  minister,  with  an 
air  of  relief.  "  Go  in  at  once;  Milly  will  admit 
you.  I  have  a  book  with  me.  If  you  should  want 
me " 

She  took  two  steps  toward  the  sombre  old 
house;  then  suddenly  turned,  her  face  luminous 
but  strangely  pale. 

"  Please  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

"  My  dear!  "  he  protested,  ^'  if  anyone  should 
be  looking " 

But  he  stooped  and  his  lips  touched  hers. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,"  he  said, 
with  a  touch  of  masculine  impatience.  "  I  will 
go  in,  if  you  prefer." 

But  already  she  had  moved  away  from  him,  a 
little  sob  in  her  throat.  Overhead  the  wind  passed 
through  the  evergreens  with  a  solemn  murmur. 

No  one  answered  her  light  rap  at  the  side  en- 
trance, and  after  a  moment  of  indecision  the  min- 
ister's wife  passed  around  to  the  kitchen.     The 


278  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

door  stood  open;  but  Milly  was  not  there.  On 
the  shelf  over  the  well-polished  cooking-range  the 
loud-voiced  clock  buzzingly  told  the  hour  of  four. 
There  were  flowers  in  a  glass  on  the  table,  and 
a  small  rocking-chair  stood  near  the  window. 
Something  white  hung  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 
Her  eyes  fastened  upon  it.  Then  she  stepped  in- 
side, her  feet  making  no  sound  on  the  painted 
floor,  where  the  sun  lay  in  wai*m  pools  of  yellow 
light.  Slowly  she  moved  across  the  space  which 
separated  her  from  the  chair.  To  the  left  of  the 
stove  a  second  door  stood  part  way  open.  She 
reached  out  a  timid  hand  to  touch  the  little  gar- 
ment on  the  back  of  the  chair.  It  was  made  of 
flannel  and  there  was  lace  about  the  scalloped 
hem.  It  was  very  quiet  in  the  kitchen;  the  loud 
ticking  of  the  clock  beat  hard  against  the  silence. 
Somewhere,  a  great  way  off,  a  cock  crew  thrice, 
and  the  distant  hoot  of  a  locomotive  whistle  echoed 
lonesomely  among  the  hills.  Mrs.  Pettibone  held 
the  little  garment  in  both  hands,  pressing  it 
against  her  cheek.  The  sun  had  rested  upon  it 
and  it  was  warm  and  soft;  the  faint  sweet  smell 
of  the  wool  was  in  her  nostrils.  Then  all  at  once 
a  sound  broke  the  clock-ridden  silence ;  some  young 
creature  was  awake  and  stiring  in  the  next  room. 

Philura  Pettibone  boldly  pushed  the  door  open 
and  looked  in.  It  was  a  small  room,  used  per- 
haps as  a  servant's  bedroom,  in  the  days  when  the 
Egglestons  were  a  large  and  prosperous  family. 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  279 

The  walls,  hung  with  defaced  and  dingy  paper  of 
a  greenish  hue,  showed  great  splotches  where  the 
damp  and  mould  had  crept  through  the  plaster. 
There  was  a  single  window,  covered  with  a  flimsy 
shade;  in  one  corner  stood  a  chest  of  drawers 
topped  by  a  cracked  mirror,  and  against  the 
further  wall  a  cot,  its  cheap  blue  and  white  striped 
mattress  imperfectly  concealed  by  a  folded  blan- 
ket. In  the  midst  of  the  blanket  a  little  mound  of 
something  white  stirred  feebly  with  a  half-smoth- 
ered cry. 

It  was  perhaps  half  an  hour  later — Philura  Pet- 
tibone  never  knew,  since  happiness  takes  no  note 
of  time.  She  was  sitting  in  the  rocking-chair 
swaying  gently  back  and  forth,  her  arms  closed 
about  the  baby,  her  down-dropped  eyes  intent 
upon  the  downy  head  against  her  breast.  The 
woman,  who  had  noiselessly  opened  a  door  from 
behind,  stood  motionless,  staring  at  her  contem- 
platively from  under  gathered  brows.  Then,  as 
if  resolved  upon  a  course  of  action,  she  came 
briskly  forward,  a  determined  smile  upon  her 
lips. 

' '  Mrs.  Pettibone !  ' '  she  said,  '  ^  1  didn  't  know 
you  were  here." 

The  minister's  wife  looked  up. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  doubtfully,  "  I  oughtn't 
to  have  taken  it  up." 

The  bleak  smile  on  the  other  woman's  lips 
faded. 


280  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  slie  said,  looking  at  the 
child  with  a  strange,  intent  expression.  ''  It 
doesn't  matter,"  she  repeated,  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience. 

She  sat  down,  her  back  to  the  window. 

"I'm  glad,  on  the  whole,  that  you  came,"  she 
said,  after  a  heavy  pause.  "  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  send  for  you.  I  am  obliged  at  last  to  ask 
counsel  of  someone.  You — or  your  husband — 
will  do  as  well  as  another." 

"  Mr.  Pettibone  is  outside,"  recollected  Mrs. 
Pettibone.    "  Shall  I — would  you  prefer " 

''No;  sit  still." 

She  moistened  her  lips  furtively. 

"  I  sent  Milly  to  the  village  with  a  telegram. 
It — seemed  necessary  to  recall  my  son,  much  as 
I  dislike  doing  so." 

The  child  in  Mrs.  Pettibone 's  arms  stirred  and 
began  sucking  its  fists  with  little  whimpering 
cries. 

''  Do  you  think Is  it  hungry!  "  she  asked, 

timidly.  "  I — of  course  I  know  very  little  about 
babies;  but " 

"  The  child — is  a  boy,"  Mrs.  Hill  said,  harshly. 
''  He  is  not  hungry.  Give  him  to  me.  I'll  put 
him  back  on  the  cot.  If  he  cries,  it  will  not  harm 
him." 

She  took  the  baby  and  walked  quickly  to  the 
ugly  little  room.  Mrs.  Pettibone  stood  gazing 
at  her  broad  stooped  back  and  the  jerky  move- 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  281 

ment  of  her  elbows  as  she  rearranged  the  blan- 
kets on  the  cot.  The  baby  continued  to  cry  feebly. 
Mrs.  Hill,  turning  suddenly,  surprised  a  look 
of  poignant  distress,  almost  of  anger,  on  the 
watchful  face.  She  shut  the  door  firmly  behind 
her. 

"  I  think  we  will  go  in  the  other  room,"  she 
said.    "  We  shall  not  be  disturbed  there," 

She  held  the  door  to  the  dining-room  wide,  mo- 
tioning the  other  woman  to  pass  in  before  her. 
But  Mrs.  Pettibone  drew  back  protestingly. 

"  He  might  cry,"  she  murmured,  "  and — we 
couldn't  hear  him." 

Mrs.  Hill's  lips  curled  impatiently. 

"  Please  go  in,"  she  said,  peremptorily.  "  I 
have  several  things  to  tell  you.  You  must  pay 
attention,  or  you  will  be  of  no  use  to  me.  It  will 
do  the  child  no  harm  to  cry  for  a  while." 

She  closed  the  second  door  with  decision  and 
motioned  her  visitor  to  a  chair. 

"  My  daughter " 

Her  face  quivered  for  an  instant,  then  settled 
into  iron  composure. 

"  The  child  was  born  ten  days  ago.  My  daugh- 
ter made  a  good  recovery.  Yesterday  she  was 
fully  dressed  for  the  first  time.  We  expected 
to  leave  this  place  next  week.    But " 

The  minister's  wife  appeared  to  be  listening, 
as  if  intent  upon  a  distant  sound.  She  spoke  with- 
out premeditation. 


282  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

*'  Don't  you  think  she  may  have  gone  with  her 
husband  1  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Hill  started  violently. 

"  With  her  husband?  "  she  repeated,  sharply. 
"  Why  should  she  go  with  her  husband — with- 
out my  knowledge?    We  expected Haven't  I 

already  told  you  that  my  son " 

She  paused  to  look  piercingly  at  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone. 

"  What  have  you  heard?  "  she  asked,  sharply. 

"  She  came  to  see  me." 

''Well?" 

"  She  told  me — about  her  marriage.  She  was 
very  unhappy." 

"  I  don't — understand  how " 

"  Your  son  brought  her  to  the  parsonage?  " 
said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  speaking  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly. ^'  They  came  in  a  carriage  about  two 
weeks  ago.    You  didn't  know  it?  " 

The  woman's  dry  lips  formed  the  word  No. 

After  a  moment  she  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
her  dull  eyes  moving  slowly  upward  to  the  ceil- 
ing, where  they  appeared  to  fasten  upon  the  move- 
ments of  a  fly  crawling  slowly  about  some  ornate 
excrescence  of  discoloured  plaster.  ''  There  was 
no  use — I  might  have  known.  She  was  always 
stubborn  and  disobedient.  I — tried  to  save  her. 
God  knows  I  tried !  ' ' 

"  I  think  you  were  trying  to  save  yourself," 
said  the  minister's  wife,  with  one  of  those  sud- 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  283 

den  flashes  of  insight  which  occasionally  visit  the 
least  discerning  of  women. 

Mrs.  Hill  looked  at  her  visitor,  a  dull  flush  ris- 
ing in  her  sallow  cheeks. 

''  You  think ?    What  do  you  know  about  me 

— about  any  of  us!  How  dare  you  say  such  a 
thing!  " 

"  Because  you  are  hard  and  cruel.  You  didn't 
believe  anything  she  said.  You  thought  your  own 
child  lied  to  you.  You  believed  she  was  wicked, 
when  she  was  only " 

Mrs.  Hill  flung  up  her  hand  in  a  sudden  reck- 
less gesture. 

"  Stop!  "  she  ordered.  *'  You  have  heard  Syl- 
via's version  of  the  matter.    Now  listen  to  mine." 

But  she  was  silent  for  a  long  minute,  during 
which  Mrs.  Pettibone  appeared  to  listen  intently 
for  some  distant  sound,  her  hands  gripped  in  her 
lap. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  tell  you  anything,'* 
Mrs.  Hill  resumed,  in  a  bitter  tone.  "  You  ap- 
pear to  have  mixed  yourself  up  in  our  affairs  from 
the  beginning.  Doubtless  you  assume  that  your 
position  as  the  wife  of  a  clergyman  entitles  you 
to — meddle." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  rose  trembling  to  her  feet. 

"  The  baby  is  crying,"  she  said.  ''  I  can- 
not listen  to  you  while  the  poor  little  thing 
is  left  alone  in  that  room.  It  is  cruel — abomin- 
able! " 


284  THE  HEAKT  OF  PHILUEA 

Her  voice  shook.  There  was  in  her  face  at  the 
moment  all  the  blind,  unreasoning  fury  of 
thwarted  motherhood. 

Mrs.  Hill  watched  her  visitor  without  apparent 
emotion  as  she  hurried  from  the  room.  When, 
presently,  she  returned,  the  small  flannel  bundle 
hugged  awkwardly  to  her  breast,  a  faint  flicker 
of  amusement  passed  over  her  rigid  face. 

^'  You  seem  fond  of  infants,"  she  commented, 
coldly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  gazing  defiantly 
at  her  from  behind  the  rampart  of  flannel,  * '  I  am. 
I  love  them !  ' ' 

She  patted  the  baby's  back,  as  women  will, 
crooning  over  the  downy  little  head. 

"  Fond,"  pronounced  Mrs.  Hill,  curtly,  ''  in 
the  silly,  ignorant  way  common  to  animals  and 
some  women.  Sit  down,  if  you  will,  and  listen 
to  what  I  have  to  say  to  you." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  obeyed.  The  child  had  ceased 
its  feeble  wailing  and  lay  quiet  in  her  arms. 

''  I  can  look  back  from  this  point  and  see  that 
I  ruined  Sylvia's  disposition  with  over-indul- 
gence," pursued  Mrs.  Hill,  with  iron  composure. 
"  All  this  " — she  appeared  to  include  the  shabby 
room,  Mrs.  Pettibone,  and  the  child  in  a  gesture 
of  disparagement — "  is  doubtless  the  result  of 
my  own  mistaken  kindness  to  a  child  of  a  singu- 
larly passionate  and — uncontrolled  nature.  I 
should  have  been  more  severe — I  should  have  in- 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  285 

sisted  upon  more  implicit  obedience.  Realising 
this,  I  have — tried " 

Her  voice,  cold  and  monotonous,  suddenly 
choked.  Mrs.  Pettibone  looked  up  from  her  rapt 
contemplation  of  the  baby's  unconscious  face. 

"  You — tried?  "  she  repeated,  wonderingiy. 

Mrs.  Hill's  solid,  erect  figure  appeared  to  grow 
larger,  more  substantial  still.  She  shot  a  glance 
of  impatient  contempt  at  the  minister's  wife. 

^'  My  husband  died  when  both  of  my  children 
were  young,"  she  resumed,  '^  leaving  me  with  a 
considerable  fortune.     Our  position  in  the  world 

was    unquestioned;    our    social    prominence 

But  why  speak  of  this  to  you!  It  is  impossible 
for  a  woman  like  you  to  understand  in  any  degree 

the  problem  that  faced  me,  when  Sylvia My 

God!    What  a  frightful  discovery!  " 

The  woman's  large  hands,  of  a  yellowish- white 
colour,  gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair. 

''  She  told  you  she  was — married?  "  faltered 
Mrs.  Pettibone. 

' '  Married  f  .  .  .  She  had  no  proof — not  even 
a  ring.    And  the  wretch  had  disappeared." 

' '  Did  you — you  knew  him  ?  ' ' 

Mrs.  Hill  was  staring  at  the  child,  who  had 
again  commenced  its  feeble  wailing. 

"  Sylvia  was  a  mere  child — a  schoolgirl,"  she 
said,  harshly.  ''  I  employed  a  governess  to  in- 
struct her  in  French  and  music.  The  woman 
connived  at  the  acquaintance — kept  it  a  secret 


286  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

from  me.  The — the  man  was  a  poor  clerk,  or 
something  of  the  sort.  I  knew  nothing  of  him — 
never  saw  him.  He  was  not  of  our  world.  I 
was,  of  course,  much  occupied  with  social  and 
charitable  work.     It  never  occurred  to  me  that 

Sylvia I  had  intended  taking  her  to  Europe 

this  summer.  We  were  only  waiting  for  my  son's 
graduation,  when  I — learned — the  facts." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  shifted  the  child's  position  in 
her  arms  with  anxious  tenderness. 

^'  But  when  you — when  she  told  you,  why  didn't 
you  try ?  " 

"  Not  being  totally  devoid  of  common  sense — 
as  you  appear  to  think — I  did  all  that  could  be 
done  without  making  an  open  scandal.  I  had 
my  son  to  think  of,  the  honour  of  the  family 
name.  There  was  no  existing  proof  of  the  mar- 
riage. Sylvia's  account  of  it  was  utterly  unbe- 
lievable. What  could  I  do?  What  would  you 
have  done?  " 

Her  tone  was  bitterly  sarcastic. 

"  I — should  have  loved  her — all  the  time," 
breathed  the  minister's  wife.  "  You  might  have 
done  that.    You  might " 

*'  I  am  not,"  Mrs.  Hill  said,  coldly,  "  a  senti- 
mentalist. I  have  always  detested  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  Yet  you  have  children." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  women  met,  like  the  blades 
of  unsheathed  rapiers. 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  287 

For  an  instant  neither  spoke. 

"  You  ought,"  said  Philura  Pettibone,  slowly, 
'^  to  have  loved  your  daughter,  before  she  was 
born ;  and  afterwards — every  minute !  ' ' 

Mrs.  Hill's  large  shoulders  moved  slightly. 

"  Eeally,"  she  said,  "  I  think  we  have  quite 
lost  sight  of  the  matter  in  hand.  I  had  no  in- 
tention of  asking  your  opinion  of  my  character 
or  conduct.  I  wished  merely  to  inquire  if  you  can 
give  me  the  name  and  address  of  a  trustworthy 
woman  to  care  for  the  child.  My  daughter  has 
left  me  of  her  own  free  will.  I  shall  not — trouble 
myself  further  concerning  her  future." 

''  How  could  she  leave  her  baby?  "  murmured 
Mrs.  Pettibone.  "It  is  that  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

The  woman's  face  changed  subtly. 

*'  She  supposed  it  was  dead." 

''  You  told  her  so?  " 

^'  I — allowed  her  to  think  so.    It  seemed — best."' 

Mrs.  Pettibone  looked  at  the  large,  pale  face, 
in  which  the  events  of  the  summer  had  graven 
ineradicable  lines,  and  a  great  pity  took  possession 
of  her. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  stammered.  "  I— didn't 
understand." 

"  You  didn't  understand?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Hill, 
dully.     ''No." 

She  stared  at  the  wall,  as  if  she  saw  written 
there  words  of  judgment  and  of  doom. 


288  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

''  If  I — "  the  minister's  wife  half  whispered 
the  words — ^'  if  you  could  trust  me " 

The  opaque  eyes  came  slowly  back,  with  a  look 
of  weary  incredulity. 

''  You  want  the  child?    Impossible!  " 

"  Why — impossible?  I  would  take  good  care 
of  him.    Oh,  I  would  love  him!  " 

''  But — your  husband's  position — he  would  not 
consent.  I  should  not,  were  I  in  his  place.  Think 
of  the — scandal.  No.  I  will  take  the  child  away 
with  me.  It  has  been  ailing  and  will,  perhajos, 
not  survive.  .  .  .  Better  so." 

A  low  cry  of  protest  broke  from  Philura  Petti- 
bone's  lips.  She  spoke  wildly,  eagerly,  scarce 
knowing  what  she  said.  Mrs.  Hill  listened,  her 
fingers  picking  at  the  folds  of  her  dress  in  pain- 
ful bewilderment. 

* '  You  tell  me — a  man  came  to  take  Sylvia  away  ? 
Stop !  I  do  not  follow  you.  What  is  this  about 
a  picture  and — someone  who  spoke  to  you — of 
us?  " 

"  It  was  her  husband — I  am  sure  of  it!  He 
looked  like  the  picture.  She  wrote  to  him,  and 
he  must  have  come.  And  if  she  thought  her  baby 
was  dead,  there  was  nothing — forgive  me  for  say- 
ing it — but  can't  you  see  she  must  have  feared 
and  dreaded  you,  after  all  that  had  happened?  " 

Mrs.  Hill  drew  a  deep  breath;  a  faint  colour 
stole  into  her  face. 

''  If,  as  you  say,  her — the  father  of  her  child 


SYLVIA'S  CHILD  289 

found  out  where  she  was,  and But  why  did 

he  not  come  to  mel    If  he  could  show  me  proof 

of  the  marriage No ;  I  cannot  believe  it.    She 

may  be — dead." 

Ghastly  fear  peered  for  an  instant  out  of  her 
distended  eyes. 

"  I — after  I  missed  her,  I  went  to  the  little 
pool  back  in  the  woods.  ...  I  thought — but  she 
was  not  strong  enough  to  walk  so  far." 

''  The  man,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  positively, 
*'  was  driving  a  fast  horse.  I  noticed  it,  par- 
ticularly. ' ' 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  both  women  became 
conscious  of  a  discreet  knock  on  the  outside  door. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  BORN  " 

The  minister  glanced  doubtfully  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  two  women,  whose  faces  had  instantly 
resumed  the  masks  habitually  worn  before  men. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  smiled  faintly  at  her  husband. 

^'  I — was  holding  the  baby,"  she  explained.  "  I 
didn't  realise  how — late  it  was." 

''  Your  wife,"  Mrs.  Hill  said,  dryly,  "  appears 
fond  of  children." 

"  H'm-m,"  murmured  Mr.  Pettibone,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  chin. 

For  a  moment  all  three  were  silent.  The  in- 
fant struggled  feebly  in  its  wrappings  with  half- 
strangled  cries. 

"  You  had  better  give  it  to  me,"  Mrs.  Hill  said, 
impassively. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  crossed  the  room. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  gazed  at  her  imploringly,  shel- 
tering the  baby  with  her  arms. 

The  minister,  who  had  been  consulting  his 
watch,  snapped  its  old-fashioned  hunting-case  shut 
with  suggestive  emphasis. 

''  Come,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  attempted 
jocularity,  ^'  you  mustn't  try  to  keep  a  baby  from 
its  grandmother,  you  know." 

290 


''  UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  BORN  "       291 

Mrs.  Hill  straightened  herself  with  a  jerk,  her 
angry  eyes  denying  his  words. 

"  Silas!  " 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  wife's  voice, 
doubtfully  interpreting  its  passion  of  entreaty. 

'^  We  really  oughtn't  to  stay  longer,"  he  said. 
"  Mrs.  Hill  is  perhaps " 

"  Come  and  look  at  the  baby,"  she  urged. 

He  obeyed,  gazing  down  at  the  small,  pink, 
twisting  face  with  a  quasi-professional  air  of 
interest. 

"  Ah!  "  he  murmured,  "  a — er — fine  child. 
Boy  or  girl?  " 

"  He  is  a  boy,  Silas,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  replied, 
looking  up    at   him   piteously.     "  Will   you   let 

me ?     Oh,  Silas,  Mrs.  Hill  is  obliged  to  go 

away  at  once  to — to   search  for  her  daughter. 

She  wants  to  leave  the  baby — and  I Oh, 

Silas!" 

"Impossible!"  broke  in  Mrs.  Hill's  harsh 
monotone.  "  I — have  changed  my  mind.  I  shall 
take  the  child  with  me." 

"  You  don't  want  it!  You  don't  love  it!  You 
are  wishing  it  would  die!  " 

Philura  Pettibone 's  voice  rang  out  in  a  shrill 
crescendo.  She  stared  accusingly  at  the  other 
woman. 

"  You  would  soon  kill  it — with  hatred  and 
neglect!  " 

"My  dear  Philura!"  expostulated  the  min- 


292  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

ister,  shocked  and  incredulous,  "surely  you  do 
not  mean " 

He  gazed  attentively  at  his  wife,  the  tardy  reali- 
sation that  he  had  never  known  her,  slowly  taking 
possession  of  him. 

Mrs.  Hill  laughed  mirthlessly. 

"  You  make  me  little  better  than  a  murderer!  " 
she  exclaimed,  contemptuously.  "  I  assure  you 
I  couldn't  have  taken  better  care  of  the  child  if 
it  had  been " 

She  bit  her  lip  sharply. 

"  You  will  let  me  have  the  baby,"  begged  the 
minister's  wife,  suddenly  abandoning  her  threat- 
ening tone.  "  I — must  have  it — I  must!  You 
know  it  will  only  be  a  hindrance  to  you.  How  can 
you  travel?  And  your  son — you  must  think  of 
him,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Hill  glanced  stealthily  at  the  minister,  who 
had  moved  toward  the  door,  his  grave  face  per- 
plexed and  frowning. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  idea  of  adding  a  misbe- 
gotten child  to  your  family?  "  she  asked,  jeer- 
ingly.  "  Clergymen  are  always  preaching  char- 
ity and  good-will.  But  I  have  never  known  one 
who  practised  it.  It  is  true  that  I  do  not  want 
the  child;  God  knows  I  have  small  cause  for  lov- 
ing it.  But  I  should  not  kill  it  with  either  kind- 
ness or  neglect." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  him!  " 

Philura  Pettibone  rose  from  her  chair,  her  face 


'^  UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  BOEN  "       293 

pale  and  luminous  like  that  of  a  woman  newly 
emerged  from  the  valley  of  the  shadow  into  which 
every  mother  must  needs  descend.  Without 
further  word  she  passed  slowly  out  of  the  room 
bearing  the  child  in  her  arms.  The  two  who  were 
left  behind  heard  the  light  sound  of  her  feet 
upon  the  gravel,  and  the  cries  of  the  child,  grow- 
ing fainter  with  distance. 

''  I  will  pay  liberally  for  its  keep,  of  course, 
should  you  consent  to  the  arrangement,"  Mrs. 
Hill  said,  haughtily.  ''  I  must  explain  further 
that  I  requested  your  wife  to  recommend  to  me 
some  honest  farmer's  wife.  I  did  intend  to  leave 
the  child.    It  is  nothing  to  me." 

Mr.  Pettibone  gazed  at  her  with  stern  rebuke. 

''  You  are  a  sinful  woman,"  he  pronounced, 
slowlj^.  "  Without  love,  a  child  is  also  without 
hope  in  the  world.  We  will  take  him  and  en- 
deavour to  bring  him  up  in  the  nurture  and 
admonition  of  the  Lord." 

''  But  I  must  insist  upon  paying  you.  I  am 
rich " 

The  minister  repelled  her  with  a  gesture  of 
dignified  authority. 

''  Your  money  perish  with  you!  "  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  severity  before  which  the  woman  shrank 
as  from  the  sharp  cut  of  a  whip. 

Milly  Orne,  returning  from  the  village  with 
an5;ious  haste,  met  the  minister's  carriage  at  the 


294  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

bend  of  the  road.  At  sight  of  its  occupants  she 
stopped  short,  her  eyes  fastened  upon  the  baby  in 
Mrs.  Pettibone's  arms. 

"  Oh!  "  she  cried,  sharply,  "  You  have  been 
there.    You " 

The  minister  pulled  up  the  impatient  horse. 

''  Yes,"  he  began,  doubtfully;  "  perhaps  we 
have  acted  unwisely;  but " 

He  glanced  at  his  wife's  pale  face. 

"  I  have  taken  him  for  my  own,"  she  said, 
simply. 

Her  smile  was  sublime. 

Milly  shook  her  head  compassionately. 

*'  He  has  cried  almost  constantly  for  several 
days,"  she  said.    ''  I  am  afraid " 

''  And  you  were  there?  '  murmured  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone,  accusingly. 

''  She  locked  the  door,"  returned  Milly,  her 
blue  eyes  filling  with  tears.  ' '  I — indeed,  I  could 
do  nothing.  But  I  am  glad  you  are  taking  him 
away." 

Left  to  herself,  the  girl's  feet  moved  more  and 
more  slowly  along  the  road.  She  appeared  to  be 
debating  some  doubtful  question  with  herself. 
Arrived  at  length  before  the  stately  gate-posts, 
which  marked  a  former  pride  of  ownership,  she 
paused  to  look  half  fearfully  at  the  clustered  chim- 
neys of  the  old  house,  gravely  withdrawn  behind 
its  ancient  trees.  The  woman  whom  she  had 
grown  to  fear  and  distrust — almost  to  hate,  in 


''  UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  BORN  "       295 

these,  the  last  days  of  her  service — was  there 
alone,  she  knew.  Already  she  had  decided  that 
she  could  not  pass  another  night  under  that  roof. 
But  there  was  something  she  must  say  to  Mrs. 
Hill  before  they  parted  as  mistress  and  maid. 

She  found  the  woman  in  the  little  room  off 
the  kitchen  engaged  in  packing  the  small  belong- 
ings of  the  baby  in  a  flat  parceL  She  glanced  up 
sharply  at  sound  of  Milly's  step. 

^'  Did  you  send  the  message?  "  she  asked. 

Milly  nodded,  her  eyes  following  the  swift 
movements  of  the  large,  pale  hands. 

"  I  am  packing  these  things,"  explained  Mrs. 
Hill;  "  to-morrow  you  are  to  take  them  to  the 
village.  I  have  arranged  with  the  clerg^Tnan's 
wife  to  care  for  the  child.  She  is  one  of  those 
silly  creatures  who  pretend  to  adore  children." 

The  girl  stood  silent,  her  hands  hanging  at  her 
side. 

Mrs.  Hill  noted  her  attitude  with  one  of  her 
darting  glances. 

*'  Why  do  you  stand  there  like  that?  "  she  de- 
manded. "  Take  off  your  hat  and  get  me  some 
tea  at  once.    It  is  late." 

Milly  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  clock  which  was  on 
the  stroke  of  six. 

"  I — am  going  now,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  half- 
frightened  voice.    "  You  will  not  need  me " 

"  Going?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Hill,  sharply.  "  In- 
deed, you  are  not.    I  shall  need  you  for  several 


296  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

days,  yet.  Do  you  think  I  shall  have  nothing  to 
do?    There  is  the  packing " 

"  I  am  going — now,"  repeated  Milly,  doggedly. 
"  I  shall  not  stay  here  any  longer." 

The  woman  stared  at  her  angrily. 

"  Take  off  your  hat  at  once!  "  she  ordered, 
stamping  her  foot. 

"  There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  before  I 
go.  You  may  like  to  hear  it,"  Milly  said,  in  her 
determined  voice. 

She  paused,  perhaps  to  choose  her  words  with 
care,  but  when  she  finally  spoke  it  was  as  though 
she  had  loaded  a  gun  with  hard,  merciless  phrases 
and  fired  them  at  a  target  with  swift  precision. 

"  I  know  what  became  of  your  daughter.  She 
went  away  with  a  man.    I  saw  him." 

"  You — saw "What  do  you  mean?  " 

Mrs.  Hill  sank  limply  into  a  chair,  as  if  the 
words  had  actually  penetrated  her  large  breast, 
inflicting  mortal  injury.  She  stared  up  at  the 
girl  with  something  like  entreaty  in  her  dull  eyes. 

' '  I  was  at  the  front  of  the  house,  sweeping  the 
passage,"  Milly  went  on.  ''  You  were  dressing 
the  baby.  All  the  doors  were  shut  between,  as 
you  told  me." 

' '  Yes — yes !    Go  on !  " 

"  A  man,  driving  a  light  buggy,  came  up  the 
road.  He  spoke  to  me — asked  me  if  a  family 
named  Hill  lived  in  the  house.  I  told  him  yes,  and 
asked  if  I  should  call  you.     Just  then  a  shut- 


i 


**  UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  BOEN  "       297 

ter  in  the  room  above  was  thrown  open ;  the  man 
looked  np.  Your  daughter  was  leaning  across 
the  sill.  She  didn't  speak  at  first — just  looked. 
He  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  '  I  have  found  you, 
at  last,'  he  said." 

"  Well?  "  commented  the  woman,  hoarsely. 
''What  then?  " 

"  I  suppose  she  must  have  gone  away  with 
him,"  Milly  said,  lowering  her  eyes. 

"  You  suppose? — Don't  you  know?  " 

''  I — came  in  directly.  I — didn't  like  to — look, 
after  that." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

Milly  looked  at  her  mistress  defiantly.  She  did 
not  answer. 

"  If  you  had  told  me,  perhaps " 

Milly  moved  toward  the  kitchen  door.  On  the 
threshold  she  paused  to  glance  back.  The  woman 
was  sitting  motionless,  a  small  folded  garment  in 
her  lap,  her  eyes  staring  straight  before  her  into 
vacancy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  PARISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS 

In  the  damp  basement  room  of  the  Presbyterian 
church,  used  indifferently  for  Sunday-school, 
prayer-meetings,  and  the  more  secular  activities  of 
"  The  Ladies'  Aid  and  Missionary  Society,"  Mrs. 
Buckthorn,  as  president  of  the  latter  organisation, 
was  assisting  Miss  Electa  Pratt  (chairman  of  the 
Sewing  Committee)  to  lay  out  the  work  for  the 
afternoon. 

''  We'd  really  ought  t'  get  that  home-mission 'ry 
barrel  ready  to  go  to  the  Mountain-Whites  this 
week,"  said  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  with  a  deep  sigh,  ex- 
pressive of  the  burden  which  rested  upon  her 
ample  shoulders.  "  I  hope  we'll  have  a  good  at- 
tendance t'-day." 

Miss  Pratt  sniffed,  as  she  held  up  to  view  a  limp 
and  faded  muslin  dress  of  a  fashion  long  since 
decadent. 

"  The  buttons  is  tore  right  out  o*  this  waist," 
she  observed,  with  a  malicious  smile.  "  Do  you 
think  it  would  pay  t'  fix? — An'  jus'  look  at  the 
hem!  Must  'a'  been  awful  muddy  'n'  never  got 
washed  clean." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  compressed  her  lips. 

"  I    donated    that    dress    myself,"    she    said, 

298 


THE  PARISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      299 

*'  after  careful  an'  prayerful  consideration.  Some 
Mountain- White  mother  will  be  glad  an'  thankful 
for  the  opportunity  of  making  over  that  dress 
for  her  child.  .  .  .  No,  Electa,  we  will  not  take 
the  ladies'  time  to  repair  it.  Let  them  go  on  with 
the  rompers  for  the  missionary's  twins.  Then 
there's  the  ribbons  t'  cut  an'  sew  for  th'  mile  of 
pennies  we're  b'ginnin'  for  r 'pairs  on  the  church 
edifice.  How  much  did  you  have  t'  pay  a  yard 
for  that  ribbon,  Electa?  " 

^'  Ten  cents,"  replied  Miss  Pratt.  "  An'  it 
ain't  all  silk." 

She  rolled  her  greenish  eyes  toward  the  door. 

"  There  comes  Mis'  Puffer,  an'  do  look!  If  she 
ain 't  bringing  her  two  youngest !  Much  work  we  '11 
get  accomplished  t  '-day.  I  s  'pose  she  remembered 
it  was  tea-an'-cake  day.  .  .  .  Good  afternoon, 
Mis'  Puffer.  .  .  .  Oh,  th'  dear  little  tots!  So 
glad  you  brought  'em  right  along. ' ' 

*'  I  had  to,"  replied  the  matron,  plaintively, 
"  or  stay  at  home.  The  baby's  teething  an'  kind 
o'  fretty,  an'  the  twins  can't  do  nothing  with 
Georgie.  He's  so  ambitious  an'  high-spirited.  He 
takes  right  after  his  pa,  Georgie  does," 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  gazed  over  the  top  of  her 
spectacles  at  the  little  boy,  who  stood  with  his 
hands  judicially  folded  behind  his  fat  person, 
staring  imperturbably  about  the  sacred  precinct. 

'*  Little  boy,"  she  said,  in  a  deep,  hollow  tone, 
"  do  you  love  Jesus!  " 


300  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

Young  Master  Puffer  appeared  to  be  consider- 
ing the  question  with  some  doubt,  when  his  mother 
hastily  interposed  in  his  behalf. 

''  Course  he  does,  Mis'  Buckthorn.  He  says  his 
prayers  just  as  cunning  ev'ry  night;  an'  he'd  'a' 
b'en  in  Sunday-school  all  summer  if  he  hadn't  had 
whooping-cough  this  spring,  an'  gone  from  that 
right  into  measles,  an'  from  that  int'  chicken- 
pox.  ' ' 

''  There's  some  children  that  seem  'lected  t'  be 
saved  from  their  earliest  infancy,"  stated  Mrs. 
Buckthorn,  sonorously.  ''  My  oldest  girl,  Martha 
Ellen,  was  that  kind.  She  died  when  she  was  six — 
of  water  on  the  brain.  She  could  repeat  correctly 
twenty-one  hymns  and  a  hundred  an'  eight  verses 
from  the  Bible.  I've  often  wondered  what  she'd 
'a'  growed  up  t'  be,  had  she  been  spared.  But 
there's  others  that  seem  born  fer  perdition.  They 
don't  appear  t'  have  no  reel  comprehension  of 
spiritooal  things,  es  I  tell  th'  deacon." 

Her  spectacled  glance  dwelt  darkly  on  the  two 
small  Puffers,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  their  moth- 
er's skirts. 

''I'd  rather  my  children  would  live  an'  be 
healthy,"  murmured  Mrs.  Puffer,  rebelliously. 
"  I'd  be  scared  stiff  if  they  was  too  r'ligious,  an' 
like  that." 

A  number  of  ladies  had  strayed  in  by  twos  and 
threes,  and  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  attention,  happily 
diverted  from  the  subject  of  infant  salvation  to 


THE  PAEISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      301 

the  more  urgent  demands  of  her  official  position, 
passed  them  in  review  one  by  one. 

''  I  don't  see  our  pastor's  wife  in  the  room," 
she  observed.  "  Has  ani/one  seen  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone?  I  requested  her  to  lead  the  d'votional  ex- 
ercises this  afternoon,  and  we  are  already  five 
minutes  past  the  hour." 

No  one  replied  at  first;  then  a  thin  voice  up- 
rose from  the  back  of  the  room: 

*'  I  don't  think  she's  comin'." 

*'  You  don't  think —  Mrs.  Salter,  did  I  un- 
derstand you  to  say  that  our  pastor's  wife  wasn't 
coming?  " 

The  lady  addressed,  now  the  target  for  every 
eye,  moved  her  angular  shoulders  slightly.  It 
was  evident  that  she  was  labouring  under  strong 
though  suppressed  excitement. 

"  I  s 'posed  3^ou'd  heard.  Mis'  Buckthorn,"  she 
said.    "  But  if  you  ain't " 

"Heard?    Heard  what?  " 

"  Why,  that  the  minister's  wife's  got  a 
baby." 

A  gasp  of  incredulity  exhaled  sharply  from 
every  matron's  breast.  •  Miss  Electa  Pratt 
achieved  a  virginal  blush,  which,  unluckily,  centred 
upon  the  end  of  her  nose. 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,"  said  Mrs.  Puffer, 
authoritatively.  "I'm  sure  I  ought  to  know, 
if " 

"  Sarah  Jane  Salter,  you  are  mistaken,"  de- 


302  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

clared  Mrs.  Buckthorn.  ''  Do  you  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  I " 

"  It's  adopted,"  conceded  Mrs.  Salter,  negli- 
gently.   "  I  thought  I  said  so." 

"Adopted!  " 

The  word  uprose  in  vehement  chorus.  After 
which  every  lady  looked  searchingly  at  every 
other  lady,  and  finally  at  Mrs.  Buckthorn. 

That  lady  had  taken  up  her  Bible,  with  an  air 
of  rigid  self-control — the  kind  and  variety  of 
that  sterling  quality  which  appears  to  put  off  for 
future  consideration  a  subject  too  large  for  un- 
premeditated speech. 

'^  We  will  read  together  the  Twenty-eighth 
Psa'm,"  she  said,  in  her  deepest  prayer-meeting 
voice,  '^  and  afterward  be  led  in  prayer  by  Mis' 
Deaconess  Scrimger." 

These  pious  preliminaries  having  been  duly  car- 
ried out,  needles,  thread,  and  a  number  of  in- 
choate garments  were  distributed  by  Miss  Electa 
Pratt,  who  stated  confidentially  to  Mrs.  Puffer 
that  she  'd  had  such  a  shock  a  person  could  knock 
her  down  with  a  feather.  Other  ladies  confessed 
to  a  "  trembly  feeling "  induced,  it  may  be 
believed,  by  the  dramatic  suddenness  of  Mrs. 
Salter's  communication. 

That  lady,  raised  to  a  sudden  eminence  of  social 
importance,  was  the  object  of  a  brisk  fire  of  ques- 
tions. But  it  was  soon  learned  that  she  knew 
very  little  of  the  actual  circumstances. 


THE  PARISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      303 

*'  No,"  she  said,  ''  I  ain't  been  t'  th'  pars'nage, 
m'self.  I  had  one  o'  my  spells  last  night,  an'  I 
could  sea  'cely  crawl  over  here  t '  the  meeting.  But 
I  felt  's  'o'  it  was  my  duty  t'  come.  All  I  know 
is,  they  come  home  f  om  somewhere  yest'd'y  aft'- 
noon,  with  a  baby.  Obed,  he  telephoned  t'  me 
'bout  five  o'clock  that  Rev.  Pettibone  was  t'  th' 
store  asking  for  a  nursing-bottle.  Course,  Obed 
he  don't  keep  'em  in  stock,  so  he  told  him  t'  go  t' 
th'  drug-store.  I  heerd  they  called  in  th'  doctor 
this  mornin'." 

''  It's  a  ver-ry  se-rious  thing  to  adopt  a  ba-by," 
stated  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  strongly.  And  it  was 
felt  that  she  had  voiced  the  sentiment  of  the 
meeting. 

''  Course,  if  you  have  children  of  your  own, 
that's  one  thing,"  she  went  on,  didactically. 
*'  The  Lord  sends  'em,  an'  you  got  t'  do  th'  best 
you  can  with  what  comes.  But  to  take  some- 
body else's  child  t'  raise  is  a  terrible  r'sponsi- 
bility.  I  don't  think  Philura  Rice  'd  ought  t' 
attempt  it,  more  especial  as  she  has  assumed 
other  duties  an'  r'ponsibilities  as  the  wife  of 
our  pastor.  If  she'd  seen  fit  t'  consult  me  be- 
fore taking  such  a  step,  I  sh'd  have  advised  her 
different." 

''  What  I  want  t'  know  is,  where  did  she  get 
it?  "  put  in  Miss  Pratt. 

Then  she  giggled,  in  her  usual  high-pitched  girl- 
ish manner. 


304  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

''  To  think  of  Philura  with  a  hahy!  "  she  cried. 
*'  The  i-dee-a!  " 

''  Obed  asked  Mr.  Pettibone  where  they  got  it," 
said  Mrs.  Salter,  '' — an'  he  sort  o'  hummed  an' 
hawed,  an'  sez  he,  '  I  haven't  consulted  with  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  es  t'  whether  it  will  be  altogether  best 
t'  divulge  the  child's  parentage,'  he  sez." 

"  Did  you  ever!  "  murmured  Mrs.  Scrimger. 
*'  Seem's  'o'  we'd  got  a  right  t'  know." 

''  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Buckthorn, 
sonorously. 

She  folded  the  red  and  white  gingham  legs, 
upon  which  she  had  been  at  work,  with  deliberate 
motions  of  her  large,  fat  hands. 

''I'm  obliged  t'  leave  early  t'-day,"  she  told 
her  satellites.  "  But  I  do  hope  you'll  all  remain 
while  the  light  is  good,  because  the  barrel  for  the 
Mountain-Whites  really  must  be  got  off  in  time  t' 
put  in  our  report  for  the  annual  church-meeting. ' ' 

A  resentful  silence,  broken  only  by  the  voices 
of  the  infant  Puffers  upraised  in  united  protest, 
settled  upon  the  gathering. 

"  The  children,"  observed  Mrs.  Puffer,  mildly, 
"  seem  t'  be  getting  fretty.  I  think  I'd  better 
take  'em  home." 

"  Aren't  you  going  t'  wait  for  the  tea  and 
cake?  "  asked  Mrs.  Scrimger. 

But  Mrs.  Puffer  had  already  gathered  her  be- 
longings and  was  moving  toward  the  door,  the 
baby's  fat  face  bobbing  over  her  shoulder  and 


THE  PARISH  HEAES  THE  NEWS      305 

Master  Georgie  trailing  a  long  strip  of  red  and 
white  checked  gingham  which  somebody  had  tied 
to  an  empty  spool. 

^'  It's  so  kind  of  damp  in  this  room,  I  feel  it 
all  through  my  bones,"  complained  Mrs.  Salter. 
*'  The  doctor  told  me  only  yest'd'y  I  was  t'  avoid 
dampness.  An'  Obed  sez  t'  me  at  dinner  t'-day 
when  I  told  him  I  meant  t'  make  an  effort  an' 
get  over  t'  the  meeting,  '  Don't  you  stay  long,' 
he  sez.  Mr.  Salter's  awful  pertic'lar  about  my 
health.  '  Mind  what  I  tell  you,'  he  sez,  '  or  I'll 
have  you  down  again  on  the  flat  o'  your  back.'  So 
I  guess " 

Her  tall,  angular  figure  disappeared  through  the 
door  to  the  gentle  patter  of  her  speech. 

''  Well,  it's  funny,  but  I  can't  stay,  either," 
simpered  Miss  Pratt.  '^  I  come  early  a-purpose 
so  I  c'd  be  excused  at  four.  I  have  an  important 
engagement. ' ' 

With  which  Miss  Pratt  also  departed. 

The  ladies  who  were  left  cast  furtive  glances 
at  one  another,  while  they  set  dutiful  stitches  in 
the  red  and  white  gingham  rompers  destined  for 
the  home-missionary's  twins. 

''  It  seems  t'  be  clouding  up,"  sighed  one. 

**  No;  but  we  don't  get  the  light  we'd  ought  to 
for  sewing,"  opined  another. 

''  If  you  ladies  don't  object,"  said  Mrs.  Scrim- 
ger,  who  was  the  chairman  of  the  refreshment 
committee,  ''me  an'  Mis'  Bassett   '11  serv^e  tea 


306  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

kind  o'  early.  I  got  to  go  home  t'  see  t'  some- 
thin'  fer  th'  deacon." 

The  entertainment  committee  withdrew  to  the 
adjoining  kitchen,  whence  a  subdued  clatter  of 
cups  and  plates  presently  issued. 

A  lady  distinguished  by  a  deep  mourning  cos- 
tume arose. 

''  I  don't  care  for  tea,"  she  said,  gently.  *'  It 
upsets  my  nerves." 

And  she  went  away. 

*'  I  don't  wonder,  Mis'  Bartlett  can't  drink  the 
tea  Mis'  Deaconess  Scrimger  brews,"  murmured  a 
pallid  person  from  the  twilight  shadow  of  the 
Sunday-school  book-shelf.  ''  It's  strong  enough 
to  bear  up  an  egg.''^ 

She  whispered  something  to  Mrs.  Elder  Trim- 
mer who  sat  next  her;  then  glided  away,  with  a 
self-righteous  air  of  superiority. 

''I'm  sure  I  don't  want  any  strong  tea;  an' 
social-tea  crackers  are  all  we'll  get  for  cake," 
said  the  woman  nearest  the  door. 

And  she  folded  up  her  red  and  white  gingham 
legs  (meaning,  of  course,  the  home-missionary 
legs)  and  silently  stole  away. 

When  Mrs.  Scrimger  and  Mrs.  Bassett  reentered 
the  room,  each  bearing  a  tray  with  cups  and  other 
tea  paraphernalia,  it  was  to  find  a  room  enlivened 
by  neatly  folded  piles  of  sanguinary-hued  mate- 
rial, but  otherwise  empty  of  occupants. 

*'  Well!  "  gasped  Mrs.  Bassett,  who  was  short 


THE  PARISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      307 

and  stout  and  correspondingly  lacking  in  breath 
at  critical  junctures.     "  Did  you  ever!  " 

Mrs.  Deaconess  Scrimger  never  did,  in  all  lier 
life ;  and  she  said  so  with  great  variety  and  free- 
dom of  speech. 

''  Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea?  "  she  asked  Mrs. 
Bassett.    "  It's  hot  an'  strong." 

But  Mrs.  Bassett,  it  appeared,  never  drank 
tea  of  an  afternoon.  Nor  did  she  at  the  moment 
feel  appetite  for  the  very  dry  and  pale  cakes 
reposing  in  serried  rows  in  two  church 
plates  of  green  sprigged  china.  Mrs.  Bassett 
thought  she  must  go  home  at  once — if  Mrs. 
Scrimger  didn't  mind — and  as  there  were  no  cups 
to  wash. 

Mrs.  Scrimger,  left  to  herself,  drank  two  cups 
of  tea — rather  than  waste  it  all.  After  which  she 
providently  restored  the  pale  cakes  to  their  paste- 
board box.  They  would  do  nicely,  she  thought, 
for  the  next  tea-an'-cake  meeting. 

It  should  be  acknowledged  at  once  that  Mrs. 
Pettibone  had — for  the  first  time  in  years — for- 
gotten the  meeting  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  and  Mis- 
sionary Society,  the  completeness  of  her  lapse  of 
memory  being  further  evidenced  by  a  slip  of  paper 
tucked  the  week  before  into  the  frame  of  her 
mirror  and  bearing  the  words,  "  Dev.  Exercises 
L.  A.  M.  S.  Aug.^22"  .  .  .  Mrs.  Pettibone  had 
actually  removed  this  paper,  inscribed  upon  it 
words  of  far  different  purport,  and  given  it  to 


308  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

Mr.  Pettibone  on  the  morning  of  that  very  day, 
as  he  stepped  forth  from  the  parsonage. 

''  THE  BABY,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  "  needs 
these  things,  at  once." 

And  she  appeared  so  very  pink  and  excited,  and 
her  hair  was  rumpled  into  such  careless  curls, 
that  the  minister,  after  glancing  at  her  in  his 
usual  professional  way,  looked  a  second  time ;  then 
deliberately  reentered  the  house,  closed  the  street 
door,  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

'^  Why — why,  Silas!"  murmured  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone, in  unaffected  surprise. 

*'  You  looked  so  sweet,"  he  excused  himself; 
and  kissed  her  twice. 

This  episode  having  been  concluded  to  the  sat- 
isfaction of  both,  he  again  went  forth  from  the 
ministerial  domicile  and  walked  away  very  fast. 
He  felt  like  whistling  a  secular  tune,  but  refrained. 
It  had  not  been  Mr,  Pettibone 's  custom  to  whistle 
tunes  of  any  sort  on  the  streets  of  Innisfield. 
Then  he  glanced  at  the  memorandum  his  wife  had 
given  him. 

''  Dev.  Exercises  L.  A.  M.  S.  Aug.  22,"  he  read. 
It  puzzled  him.  Why  should  the  baby  require — 
But  hold ! — quite  as  she  had  meant  him  to  do,  he 
turned  the  paper  over  and  perceived  other  words : 
"  2  cakes,  best  Castile  soap  (white),  3  cards 
safety-pins,  small,  medium,  and  large.  Two  yds. 
fine  white  flannel,  1/4  lb.  lactose." 


THE  PAEISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      309 

The  minister  had  not  slept  as  well  as  common 
the  night  before.  There  had  been  various  noises 
of  an  unfamiliar  nature  and  the  ever  recurrent 
vision  of  a  small  figure,  panoplied  in  white,  pass- 
ing to  and  fro.  But  the  sight  of  his  wife^s  face 
across  the  breakfast-table  had  caused  him  to  for- 
get it  all.  He  had  not  known  she  could  look 
like  that.  The  thought  of  it  followed  him,  as  he 
entered  the  Emporium  of  Elder  George  Trimmer, 
where  safety-pins  of  assorted  sizes  could  doubt- 
less be  found. 

''  Safety-pins?  "  said  Brother  Trimmer.  ^'  Um 
• — yes,  we  have  them." 

He  looked  inquiringly  across  the  counter  at  his 
pastor.  He  had  heard  of  men  whose  wives  were 
so  negligent  in  the  matter  of  buttons  that  they 
were  compelled  to  make  use  of  the  invention  which 
he  now  displayed  in  nickel-plated  profusion  upon 
his  counter. 

Mr.  Pettibone  painstakingly  selected  three 
cards,  small,  medium,  and  large,  as  per  memo- 
randum. 

''  And  fine  white  flannel,"  he  added.  ''  You 
have  fine  white  flannel,  I  suppose!  and — er — Cas- 
tile soap;  the — er — best." 

He  glanced  stealthily  at  the  scrap  of  paper  con- 
cealed in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

''  Er — white.    The  soap  must  be  white." 

* '  Well,  well !  ' '  said  Mr.  Trimmer,  with  a 
slightly  jocular  air.    *'  Hum — yes,  yes!  " 


310  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

Mr.  Trimmer  was  a  family  man,  and  proud  of 
the  fact. 

"  Only  tivo  yards  of  this  flannel?  "  he  inquired. 
' '  Only  two  ?  Now  I  should  say  you  would  require 
at  least  eight.  Yes;  eight  wouldn't  be  any  too 
lavish  a  pattern,  I  should  say.  Some  ladies  buy 
ten,  or  even  twelve.  A  square  yard  of  this  flan- 
nel worked  around  the  edge — yes,  worked,  scal- 
loped, as  ladies  will — makes  a  tip-top  infant's 
blanket." 

' '  I  think, ' '  said  Mr.  Pettibone,  rubbing  his  chin 
dubiously,  ^'  that  it  already  has  a  blanket;  or, 
perhaps,  two.     I  noticed  Mrs.  Pettibone " 

"  Hum!  Yes,  yes!  "  murmured  Mr.  Trimmer, 
fussily.  ' '  Er — I  may  say  I  am  surprised.  I  had 
no  idea " 

*'  Nor  had  I,  till  yesterday,"  said  his  pastor. 
*  *  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me,  I  own ;  but 

my  wife Yes ;  you  may  cut  off  two  yards  of 

that  flannel.  If  more  is  required,  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone will  come  in  later.  I  think  the  child  re- 
quires it  to-day.  As  far  as  I  know,  its  wardrobe 
is  somewhat  limited." 

Mr.  Trimmer's  shears,  which  had  shiningly 
snipped  their  way  well  into  the  blue-white  flan- 
nel, came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"  Limited!  "  he  exclaimed,  honestly  aghast. 
''  And  you  didn't  know  until  yesterday?  " 

"  In  the  course  of  our  parochial  rounds,"  said 
Mr.  Pettibone,  calmly,  '*  we  chanced  yesterday 


THE  PARISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      311 

to  meet — er — amid  somewhat  distressing  circum- 
stances— a  young  infant.  My  wife — er — Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone  is  a  very  warm-hearted  person,  and,  being 
touched  by  the  infant's  evident  need  of  mater- 
nal care,  she  offered,  indeed  I  may  say  insisted 

upon " 

"  You  adopted  itf     You  took  a  child  to — to 
bring  up?  " 

"  Precisely.    We  brought  it  with  us  to  the  par- 
sonage last  night.    It  is  a  boy,  and  appears " 

Mr.  Trimmer  shook  his  head. 
"I'm  sorry  you  didn't  consult  me,"  he  said, 
*^  before  taking  such  a  step." 

"  Why?  "  propounded  Mr.  Pettibone.    "  Don't 
you  think  me  capable  of  bringing  up  a  son  1  ' ' 

Mr.    Trimmer    smacked    his    tongue    smartly 
against  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 
•     "  I  wouldn't  advise  anybody  to  adopt  a  child," 
he  said.    "  It's  too  great  a  r'sponsibility." 

''  It  would  have  involved  a  graver  responsibility 
to  leave  the  child  where  it  was,"  said  Mr.  Petti- 
bone. "  And  why  should  I  not  assume  a  responsi- 
bility? I  am,  I  believe,  a  responsible  person." 
Mr.  Trimmer  looked  pityingly  at  him. 
"  Have  you  any  idea  what  sort  of  man  that 
infant  will  grow  into?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Well,  no,"  replied  the  minister.    "  Can  any- 
one predict  what  their  children  will  grow  into? 
Can  you,  for  example?  " 
**  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Trimmer,  "  I  can.    If  my 


312  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

boys  don't  behave,  I'll  make  'em  behave,  and  they 
know  it.  George  Trimmer,  Junior,  will  be  a  man 
like  me.    An'  Henry's  like  his  Ma." 

"  Well?  "  correlated  the  minister,  tentatively. 

''  The  breed's  more'n  the  pastur',"  quoted  Mr. 
Trimmer,  smartly.  "  Whose  child  is  it!  Where 'd 
you  git  him?    Tell  me  that,  an'  I'll  tell  you " 

''  Impossible,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone.  "  We  have 
decided  to  keep  all  that  to  ourselves.  But  let  me 
remind  you,  Brother  Trimmer,  that  an  immortal 
soul  has  other  attributes  than  those  merely 
physical :  all  are  children  of  God,  and  inherit  eter- 
nal life — eternal  possibilities  of  glory." 

'*  In  Adam's  fall  we  sinned  all,"  snapped  Mr. 
Trimmer.     "  You  can't  get  back  of  that." 

He  finished  snipping  off  the  flannel  and  banged 
his  scissors  smartly  on  the  counter,  as  if  they 
had  been  the  shears  of  fate. 

'^  I  hope  you  won't  be  sorry  ten  years  from 
now,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  signifying  the  exact 
opposite  of  his  words;  "  ner  in  twenty.  I  ain't 
got  no  use  for  other  folks'  children." 

"  In  that  respect,"  said  his  pastor,  keenly, 
"  you  differ  from  Jesus  of  Nazareth." 

With  which  trenchant  saying  he  departed,  leav- 
ing the  two  yards  of  blue-white  flannel  upon  the 
counter. 

Mr.  Trimmer  gazed  at  the  small  parcel  with  a 
singular  expression  on  his  rather  dry  and  wiz- 
ened countenance. 


3 


THE  PAEISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      313 

"  In  that  respect  I  differ, — eh?  "  he  muttered, 
thoughtfully.  "  Now  what'd  he  mean  b'  that? 
Perhaps  I  did  put  it  a  little  strong.  .  .  .  An'  he 
fergot  his  flannel  and  the  safety-pins.  Mebbe 
I'd  better  send  'em  up  t'  the  house.  She  might 
want  'em  f'r  th'  baby.  .  .  .  Here  you,  George, 
g'  up  t'  the  pars'nage  with  this  bundle.  They're 
in  a  hurry  f'r  it." 

Mr.  Trimmer  walked  to  his  desk  in  the  rear 
of  the  store  and  opened  his  day-book,  with  the 
intent  of  entering  the  items  the  minister  had  for- 
gotten to  pay  for. 

''Adopted,"  he  repeated.  "Adopted!  It'll 
cost  'em  a  good  bit  to  bring  up  a  boy.  H'm!  So 
it  will.  .  .  .  Guess  I  won't  charge  it." 

He  laid  down  his  pen  with  a  pleasant  glow 
about  his  heart. 

That  same  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Pettibone  had 
fed  the  baby,  she  sat  gazing  at  him  with  loving 
intentness.  She  supposed  she  ought  to  put  him 
down  in  the  little  bed  she  had  improvised  out  of 
two  chairs  and  a  pillow,  but  she  excused  herself 
on  the  ground  that  she  had  not  yet  had  a  chance 
to  take  a  good  look  at  the  child.  He  had  cried  a 
good  deal  in  the  night  and  refused  the  bottle  she 
had  so  urgently  pressed  into  the  small,  widely 
opened  mouth.  In  the  morning  she  sent  for 
Doctor  North,  and  he  had  come  at  once  in  response 
to  her  summons. 

"  Well,  Miss  Philura,  what's  the  matter  with 


314  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

you?  "  he  began,  as  he  hurriedly  wriggled  out 
of  his  raincoat.  ''  Or  is  it  the  dominie?  Don't 
know  when  I've  been  in  this  house  before." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  always  stood  very  much 
in  awe  of  the  excellent  doctor.  His  large  pres- 
ence and  loud  authoritative  voice  affected  many 
women  that  way.    But  all  of  them  trusted  him. 

"  You  told  me — advised  me  to  adopt  a  baby," 
she  said,  trembling  visibly.  '^  And  I — he's  here, 
and  I  don't  know  what  to  feed  him,  or — or  any- 
thing. ' ' 

Doctor  North  stared  at  Mrs.  Pettibone,  his  griz- 
zled eyebrows  drawn  over  his  bright  eyes  in  an 
intimidating  frown. 

"  I  told  you — I  advised  you?  "  he  blurted  out. 
*'  When  did  I  say  anything  like  that — to  you? 
I  have  no  recollection " 

''  A  long  time  ago,"  she  reminded  him.  "  You 
were  just  coming  out  of  Mrs.  Salter's.  She'd 
been  having  a  spell;  don't  you  remember?  " 

"  Bless  my  soul!  if  I  should  tax  my  memory 
with  everything  I'd  said  coming  out  of  Mrs.  Sal- 
ter's     But  you  say  you've  actually  got  a  baby 

on  the  premises?  And  I  didn't  even  know  it? 
I'll  have  to  look  into  this.  I  will,  indeed.  Can't 
have  that  sort  of  thing  going  on." 

And  he  rubbed  his  big  hands  together  and 
laughed  his  big  laugh  as  he  followed  the  small 
fluttering  person  of  Mrs.  Pettibone  into  the  sit- 
ting-room, where  two  chairs  and  a  pillow  were 


I 


THE  PARISH  HEARS  THE  NEWS      315 

placed  in  close  juxtaposition  to  the  stove,  in 
which  a  fire  was  burning. 

"  I  thought  I  ought  to  keep  him  warm,"  she 
murmured,  as  the  doctor  flung  up  a  window,  with 
a  muttered  exclamation. 

"  Yes,  but  not  cook  him.  Miss  Philura.  Now, 
let's  look  into  this." 

He  pulled  away  the  flannel  from  the  small,  pink 
face. 

''  Why,  bless  my  soul!  "  he  exploded.  "  This 
child  can 't  be  much  more  than  a  week  old.  Where 
on  earth — where 's  the  mother?  " 

^'^  He's  ten  days  this  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone,  proudly.     "I'm  his  mother." 

The  doctor  stared  at  her  frowningly. 

'  *  You !  ' '  his  eyes  said,  only  too  plainly, ' '  of  all 
persons!  " 

She  clasped  her  hands  appealingly. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  think  I  can?  "  she  murmured. 
"  I've  wanted  one  so  long,  and  I — I  love  him  so! 
I'll  do  everything  you  tell  me.    I'll " 

"  I  gTiess  you'll  have  to,  seeing  you've  got  him, 
by  hook  or  crook.  A  boy — eh?  Harder  to  raise 
than  a  girl.  It's  well  to  begin  on  a  girl.  Well, 
"we'll  see — we'll  see!  " 

And  he  had  seen,  thoroughly  and  in  detail,  when 
he  finally  left  the  parsonage,  after  a  visit  of  un- 
paralleled length.  Mrs.  Pettibone  felt  that  she 
had  never  appreciated  sufficiently  the  vast  and 
profound  knowledge  locked  up  in  Mrs.  Puffer's 


316  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

matronly  breast.  No  wonder  mothers  had  that 
patronising  air  she  had  formerly  resented.  They 
had  a  right  to  be  haughty  and  superior.  They  had 
a  right,  too,  to  pity  ignorant  persons  who  knew 
nothing  of  babies.  ill 

Mrs.  Pettibone  pensively  regarded  the  baby's 
bottle,  in  which  remained  a  small  portion  of  prop- 
erly modified  milk.  She  had  come  a  long  way  since 
yesterday,  and  learned  many  things  of  which 
she  had  no  previous  knowledge.  And  the  doctor 
had  said  he  would  come  again.  He  would  come 
often ;  and  she  was  not  to  worry  about  the  charge, 
because  an  adopted  baby  was  different.  Every- 
body had  to  take  hold  with  an  adopted  baby.  It 
was  no  more  than  right. 

The  door-bell  rang.  It  was  Mrs.  Buckthorn, 
and  she  had  come  directly  from  the  forgotten 
meeting  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  and  Missionary 
Society. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE    LADIES   AID 


*'  My  dear  Philura,"  Mrs.  Buckthorn  began  at 
once,  '^  I  was  never  more  surprised  in  all  the 
course  of  my  life!  " 

Her  large  face  wore  a  chastened  expression  of 
grief,  and  she  steppd  softly  as  she  entered  the 
hall. 

''  I  suppose  I  may  see  it,"  she  murmured,  in 
precisely  the  same  tone  she  would  have  used 
in  a  house  of  mourning. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Mrs.  Pettibone,  also  in 
hushed  accents,  "  he  is  asleep,  now." 

"  Dear,  dear!  '  sighed  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  as  she 
stooped  over  the  unconscious  infant.    "  My,  my !  " 

And  she  clicked  her  tongue  rapidly  against  the 
roof  of  her  mouth,  as  the  proper  preliminary  for 
a  repetition  of  her  initial  remark,  varied  only  by 
a  change  of  emphasis. 

"  My  dear  Philura,  I  was  never  more  surprised 
in  all  the  course  of  my  life." 

'*  Isn't  he  dear?  "  propounded  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
boldly.  She  added  with  noticeable  pride,  almost 
arrogance:  "  Doctor  North  says  he  is  an  unusu- 
ally fine  child.  He  weighs  nine  pounds.  And  of 
course  he'll  gain,  on  proper  food." 

317 


318  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  clicked  rapidly,  as  if  words 
were  inadequate  to  express  her  emotions.  Then 
she  shook  her  head. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  done  it,  Philura,"  she 
said,  solemnly. 

''  Why  not?  "  asked  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

But  it  was  evident  that  she  did  not  ask  for  in- 
formation. Her  question,  on  the  contrary,  ex- 
pressed unqualified  defiance.  And  so,  indeed,  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  interpreted  its  meaning. 

' '  You  should  have  consulted  me,  before  taking 
such  a  se-rious  step,"  she  said.  "  You  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  bring  up  a  ba-by." 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  fortified  by  her  recent  confer- 
ence with  Doctor  North,  elevated  her  chin  slightly. 

"  Nobody  does,  till  they  try,"  she  said.  ''  I 
suppose  I  can  learn,  just  as — as  you  did." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  transfixed  her  with  an  awful 
look. 

''  Moth-er-liood,"  she  stated,  sonorously,  "  pre- 
pares a  woman  for  the  ard-u-ous  duties  which 
await  her.  You  have  had  no  such  preparation, 
Philura;  therefore " 

"  What  about  trained  nurses?  They're  not 
even  married,  and  they  learn." 

Mrs.  Pettibone 's  tone,  and  indeed  her  manner, 
was  almost  flippant.  She  added :  ' '  Doctor  North 
says  I  shall  get  along  splendidly.    He  says " 

*'  What  are  you  feeding  the  ba-by?  "  inten- 
rupted  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  gazing  suspiciously  at 


THE  LADIES  AID  319 

the  child's  sleeping  face  over  the  top  of  her 
spectacles. 

"  Modified  milk,"  replied  Mrs.  Pettibone,  glibly. 
*'  Top  milk,  boiled  water,  and — lactose,  in 
proper " 

''  Oh,  my!  "  broke  in  the  older  matron.  '*  That 
will  never  do!  I  don't  b'lieve  in  these  new- 
fangled  " 

''  But  Doctor  North  says " 

'^  I  have  no  confidence  in  doctors,  when  it  comes 
to  ba-bies." 

<'But " 

*'  What  should  a  big,  rough  man  know  about  a 
tender,  delicate  infant?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn, excitedly.  *'  What  you  want  t'  feed  that 
ba-by  is " 

The  door-bell  rang. 

It  was  Mrs.  Puffer,  and  she  carried  an  ama- 
teurish-looking parcel  done  up  in  newspaper  and 
tied  with  a  strip  of  red  and  white  checked 
gingham. 

* '  I  just  ran  in  for  a  minute  to  bring  these  little 
slips,"  she  said,  breathlessly,  '*  and  to  see  the 

baby.  ...  Oh!    isn't   he It   is    a   boy?     I 

thought  so,  the  minute  I  looked  at  him.  What 
are  you  feeding  him?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes;  I  think  that's 
good — only  I  add  barley  water,  instead  of  plain 
water,  and  if  his  p'ecious  'ittle  tummey  gets  up- 
set, leave  off  the  milk  entirely.  .  ,  .  How  can  you 
tell!    Oh,  by " 


320  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

The  door-bell  rang. 

It  was  Miss  Electa  Pratt.  She  came  in,  her  be- 
frizzled  head  very  much  on  one  side,  her  angular 
chin  seeking  to  hide  itself  coyly  amid  the  ruffles 
at  her  throat. 

"  I  feel  so  funny!  ''  she  giggled.  "  I  don't  know 
what  V  say.  Philura  with  a  baby!  Dear,  dear! 
I  couldn't  have  been  more  surprised,  if  you'd 
really — don't  you  know?  .  .  .  Isn 't  he  ^w?/.^  How 
do  you  dare  to  touch  him?  /  shouldn't,  I  know. 
.  .  .  And  what  does  Mr.  Pettibone  say?  ...  He 
isn't  in?  Oh,  that's  too  bad!  I  wanted  t'  ask 
him —  And,  oh,  Philura,  if  you  haven't  got  a 
crib  for  the  baby,  Ma  says  there's  one  in  our  attic 
you  can  have  just  as  well  as " 

The  door-bell  rang. 

It  was  Mrs.  Salter,  carrying  a  small  square 
box,  of  an  ancient  and  fly-specked  appearance. 

*'  Well,  seem  's  'o'  our  sewing-society "  she 

murmured.  ''  I  just  ran  over  to  bring  you  a  sam- 
ple of  Dr.  Pillwick's  Patent  Purified  Baby  Food. 
An  agent  left  it  at  the  store  last  winter.  Obed 
doesn't  carry  it  in  stock;  but  he  says  he  can  get 
it  for  you,  if  it  agrees  with  the  baby.  .  .  .  Oh, 
there  it  is!  What  a  care!  I  wonder  you  dare 
attempt  it.  As  I  was  saying  t'  Obed,  if  the  Lord 
had  seen  fit " 

The  door-bell  rang. 

Mrs.  Bartlett,  like  a  shadow  of  woe  in  her  som- 
ber garments,  glided  in.    She  was  a  pretty  woman 


THE  LADIES  AID  321 

with  eyes  perpetually  reddened  by  weeping. 
Everybody  in  Innisfield  knew  that  she  had  lost 
four  children  one  after  the  other;  and  the  four 
little  mounds  in  the  cemetery  never  lacked  fresh 
blossoms,  summer  or  winter. 

She  kissed  Mrs.  Pettibone  silently;  then  moved 
toward  the  two  chairs  and  the  pillow  on  which 
reposed  the  sleeping  infant,  oblivious  to  the  storm 
of  excitement  his  small  presence  in  the  parsonage 
had  evoked.  She  gazed  at  the  child  long  and 
earnestly. 

'^  He  looks,"  she  murmured,  in  the  ear  of  her 
pastor's  wife,  ''  like  my  little  Jamie." 

The  other  women  in  the  room  were  silent; 
even  Mrs.  Buckthorn  blew  her  nose,  loudly  and 
sympathetically.  Mrs.  Pettibone  squeezed 
the  bereaved  mother's  hand.  She  knew 
now  (she  was  telling  herself)  how  poor  Mrs. 
Bartlett  felt.  Before  she  had  not  been  able  to 
guess. 

"  I — I've  brought  over  a  few  things,"  mur- 
mured the  lady  in  black.  ''I'd  like  you  to  have 
them  for  this  dear  little  baby." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  murmured  her  thanks. 

"  The  expressman  will  leave  a  wicker  crib  and 
a    perambulator — I    suppose    you    haven't    had 

time No;  I  don't   care   to  keep  them  any 

longer.  My — babies  don't  need  them.  And  this 
dear  little  soul — how  strong  and  well  he  looks !  ' ' 

The  door-bell  rang. 


322  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

Mrs.  Trimmer  and  Mrs.  Bassett  arrived  to- 
gether.   Both  ladies  carried  parcels. 

*'  So  this  is  what  became  of  our  Ladies'  Aid!  '^ 
crowed  Mrs.  Bassett,  all  smiles.  "  You'd  ought 
t'  have  seen  Mis'  Deaconess  Scrimger  an'  me  with 
the  cups  and  a  pot  of  b'ilin'  tea  an'  the  cake  an' 

all Oh,  here's  the  baby!    You  certainly  did 

give  us  the  s 'prise  of  our  young  lives,  Mis'  Petti- 
bone.  No  wonder  you  f ergot  th'  d'votional  exer- 
cises.   Most  anybody  would." 

Mrs.  Trimmer  had  already  pressed  her  parcel 
upon  Mrs.  Pettibone's  acceptance. 

''  A  few  binders,"  she  murmured,  ''  just  tore 
off  of  silk  an'  wool  flannel.  Some  folks  cat-stitch 
'em;  but  I  never  did.    Their  little  stomachs  are 

too  tender Oh!  is-n't  he Where  did  he 

come  from?    You'll  tell  us,  I  know." 

Seven  pairs  of  earnest,  determined  eyes 
fastened  upon  Mrs.  Pettibone's  flushed  and  con- 
scious face. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  ask  Philura  that  ver-ry 
same  question,"  intoned  Mrs.  Buckthorn. 

''Is  he  an  orphan!  "  twittered  Mrs.  Puffer, 
patting  the  blankets  anxiously. 

"  I  s'pose  he  come  from  somewheres  around 
here?  "  inferred  Miss  Pratt,  astutely.  "  I  heard 
you  brought  him  in  the  buggy." 

"  We — we've  decided  not — to  tell." 

A  slight  murmur  of  surprise  arose  from  seven 
protesting  mouths. 


THE  LADIES  AID  323 

*'  Don't  be  has-ty,  Philura,"  warned  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn. "  A  secret  about  a  ba-by  is  bound  to  come 
out." 

"  Mr.  Pettibone  and  I  both  think  that,  on  ac- 
count of  the  parents " 

"  0-o-oh!  " 

*'  They  are  married,"  stated  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
doggedly.  ^'  But  we  don't — we  don't  even  know 
their  name — that  is,  I  do  know  their  first  names ; 
and  I've  named  the  baby " 

"  You've  named  the  baby,  already?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Puffer,  in  obvious  disappointment.  "  I  was  just 
going  t'  suggest " 

"  An'  I  suppose,  of  course,  Mr.  Pettibone — be- 
ing the  adopted  father " 

"  His  name,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  positively, 
*^  is  Stephen." 

When,  just  before  tea-time,  the  minister  re- 
turned from  a  round  of  parish  visiting,  he  found 
his  wife  alone  with  her  new  treasure  in  a  room 
abounding  in  new  and  unfamiliar  objects. 

''  Why — why,  what  has  happeed?  "  he  inquired, 
gazing  short-sightedly  at  several  elaborate  crea- 
tions of  wicker-work,  a  number  of  patent  nursing 
bottles,  a  bath-tub,  and  a  profusion  of  small  gar- 
ments spread  out  on  the  chairs  and  tables. 

''  Oh,  Silas!  "  cried  his  wife,  "  everybody  is  so 
interested.    You  can't  think." 

The  door-bell  rang. 

It  was  Miss  Malvina  Bennett.     She  wore  her 


324  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

sewing-by-the-day  dress,  and  carried  a  large  roll 
of  fashion-books  under  her  arm. 

"  Uh-huh!  "  murmured  Miss  Malvina,  after  she 
had  inspected  the  baby,  who  was  at  the  moment 
engaged  in  absorbing  his  allotted  portion  of  top- 
milk.  ''  So  that's  the  way  it  turned  out.  Well, 
well!  " 

She  nodded  her  head  understandingly. 

''  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  ask  you  where  it  come 
f'om;  but  I  c'd.make  a  pretty  good  guess,  ef  I 
was  t'  try." 

"  We're  not  going  to  tell  anyone,  Malvina." 

Miss  Bennett  cackled  dryly. 

''  I  met  'em  a-comin'  away,"  she  said.  ''  Land! 
they  was  a-canvassin'  the  subjec'!  Electa  Pratt, 
she's  a  sharp  one.  '  They  brought  it  home  in  the 
buggy,'  she  sez,  pos'tive,  so  it  must  'a'  come 
f'om  round  here.  I  didn't  let  on.  But  I  sez 
t'  myself,  'nless  them  folks  hes  gone,  I  sez, — 'n', 
even  then,  there's  Milly  Orne  knows  all  about  it." 

''  Milly  won't  tell,"  murmured  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
*'  It's  just  on  account  of " 

Miss  Malvina  nodded. 

*'  Jus'  's  well  t'  keep  it  clost,  ef  you  kin,"  she 
agreed.  '*  But  what's  become  o'  her?  Don't  she 
want  the  baby?  " 

"  She  thinks — she  believes  it  died.  She  went 
away,  believing " 

Miss  Bennett  gave  vent  to  a  snort  of  disgust, 

'*  Ef  that  ain't  like  that  stuck-up  old  woman! 


THE  LADIES  AID  325 

She'd  'a'  drove  the  girl  t'  her  death  b'  drowndin', 
ef  it  hadn't  b'en  fer  me.  I  told  her  pint  blank 
'bout  th'  Encirclin'  Good, — not  'at  I  knowed  much 
'bout  it,  m'self — but  it  seemed  t'  take  a  holt  on 
that  poor,  young  creetur'.    It  did,  fer  a  fact." 

She  approached  her  kind,  wrinkled  face  close 
to  Mrs.  Pettibone's. 

"  I  mailed  a  letter  f 'r  her,"  she  whispered.  *'  I 
kind  o'  thought " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  '^  he  must  have  re- 
ceived it." 

"  D'  you  mean ?  " 

''  He  took  her  away." 

''Well!    I  want  t' know!  " 

Miss  Bennett  poked  the  small  flannel  bundle  in 
Mrs.  Pettibone's  lap,  with  an  experimental  fore- 
finger. 

"I'd  admire  t'  make  some  clo'es  fer  it,"  she 
said.  "  I  c'd  do  'em  evenin's.  It's  child's  play 
t'  sew  them  little  things;  'n'  I'd  love  to,  I  d'clare 
I  would!  'Twould  be  a  change  f'om  grown-up 
sewin'." 

Her  faded  eyes  met  those  of  her  pastor's  wife 
with  an  imploring  look. 

"  You — you  wouldn't  mind,  Philura?  " 

"  Of  course  I  wouldn't,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  re- 
turned, promptly.  "  I  can't  sew  nearly  as  beau- 
tifully as  you  do." 

Her  thin  arms  closed  jealously  about  the  tiny 
form. 


326  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

"  I — I'm  not  going  to  be — selfish  witli  him,'*  she 
breathed.  "  You  can  come  in  and — hold  him, 
whenever  you  want  to,  Malvina ;  and — and  you  can 
pretend  he's  part  yours." 

''  Can  II  "  cried  Miss  Bennett,  joyously. 
*'  Say!  I'll  be  his  Aunt  Malvina;  that's  what  I'll 
be.  It's  kind  o'  suitable,  too,  when  you  think  of 
it — ^me  a-makin'  her  a  dress,  an'  mailin'  a  letter  t' 
his  pa,  'n'  keepin'  her  out  o'  the  pond,  'n'  like 
that.    Don't  you  think  so?  " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

MISS  PHILURA'S  BABY 

When  the'*  E  ever  end  Silas  Pettibone  had  yielded 
to  his  wife's  determined  wish  in  the  matter  of  the 
baby,  he  had  been  veiy  far  indeed  from  realising 
the  full  significance  of  his  act.  He  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  i^ut  his  thoughts  into  words — 
would,  very  likely,  have  denied  that  they  existed ; 
but  his  hospitality  had  appeared,  in  the  light  of 
his  imperfect  masculine  understanding,  to  be  not 
unlike  that  extended  to  a  homeless  little  animal. 
Some  people,  he  knew,  strenuously  objected  to 
sheltering  a  forlorn,  half-starved  kitten,  driving 
it  from  their  doors  with  harsh  cries  of  scorn  and 
contumely.  As  for  a  dog,  strayed  or  stolen,  they 
resolutely  turned  their  backs  on  his  pleading  eyes 
and  the  voiceless  eloquence  of  his  persuasive  tail. 
Silas  Pettibone  was  not  that  sort  of  a  man.  Soli- 
darity was  not  merely  a  word  to  him,  he  felt  to 
his  innermost  fibre  the  mysterious  oneness  of  life. 
So  this  little  unwelcome,  unloved  scrap  of  human- 
ity should  find  shelter  under  his  roof,  permanent 
or  temporary  as  the  case  might  be. 

But  it  was  precisely  this  latter  aspect  of  their 
quasi-parenthood  which  continually  harassed  his 
wife. 

327 


328  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

"  If  tliey  should  come  to  take  him  away,"  she 
was  always  saying,  her  eyes  shadowed  with  fear. 

"  We  should  certainly  have  to  give  him  up," 
was  the  minister's  unbiased  opinion.  ''  We  have, 
you  know,  no  legal  right  to  the  child." 

''  But — she  gave  him  to  me,"  argued  his  mfe. 

Mr.  Pettibone  shook  his  head. 

'*  I  was  present,"  he  would  remind  her.  "  You 
walked  calmly  away  with  the  child  in  your  arms ; 
she  merely  allowed  you  to  take  him." 

"  She  didn't  want  him." 

'*  That  is  true,  but " 

It  was  this  ''  but,"  rooted  in  unknown  condi- 
tions, which  haunted  Mrs.  Pettibone,  and  would 
not  down. 

The  day  after  she  had  triumphantly  carried  her 
point  with  Mrs.  Hill,  Milly  Orne  appeared  at  the 
parsonage.  She  was  the  bearer  of  a  parcel  of 
baby  clothes  and  an  envelope  which  was  found  to 
contain  bank-notes  amounting  to  a  hundred 
dollars. 

In  response  to  Mrs.  Pettibone 's  eager  questions, 
Milly  said  she  had  left  Mrs.  Hill  the  night  be- 
fore. The  parcel  had  been  delivered  at  the  Ornes' 
by  the  expressman,  who  had  been  employed  to 
fetch  a  wagon-load  of  trunks  from  the  old  Eggle- 
ston  house  to  the  railway  station.  Milly  supposed 
the  woman  had  left  Innisfield.  Grandfather  had 
seen  her  driving  past  in  a  carriage. 


MISS  PHILURA'S  BABY  329 

Her  blue  eyes  persistently  avoided  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone's. 

"  What  became  of  the  young  man?  "  asked  tbe 
minister's  wife. 

A  resentful  blush  sprang  into  the  girl's  averted 
face  and  mounted  swiftly  to  the  roots  of  her  bright 
hair. 

"  How  should  I  know?  "  she  murmured. 

''  Oh!  " 

The  exclamation  was  involuntary;  but  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone  instantly  regretted  that  she  had  allowed 
it  to  escape  her  lips. 

Milly  Ome  was  looking  at  her  defiantly. 

''  I  hope,"  she  said,  coldly,  "  I  shall  never  see 
any  of  them  again. ' ' 

Then,  unexpectedly,  she  was  compelled  to  deal 
with  several  large  tears  which  forced  themselves 
into  view  on  her  lashes. 

''I'm  sure  you'll  think — I  know — I'm  very  fool- 
ish," stammered  Milly,  whisking  the  tears  away 
with  a  touch  of  anger.  "  But  I — I  wish  I  hadn't 
gone  there,  at  all." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  forebore  questions;  but  she 
could  not  help  remembering  with  an  uncomfort- 
able sense  of  guilt  that  it  was  at  her  suggestion 
Milly  had  gone  to  the  Eggleston  farm. 

' '  Anyway,  you  have  earned  the  new  roof, ' '  she 
reminded  the  girl,  after  an  awkward  silence  dur- 
ing which  Milly  dried  her  eyes  and  successfully 
subdued    her    emotion.      "  And — and    the    cow. 


330  THE  HEAKT  OF  PHILUEA 

That  is  surely  something  to  be  thankful  for." 

The  girl  smiled  forlornly. 

''  I  did  what  I  started  out  to  do,"  she  assented, 
staring  out  of  the  window. 

Presently  she  added: 

''  You  will  keep  the  baby!  " 

''  I  certainly  shall,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
*' Unless " 

It  has  been  pointed  out  to  us  that  the  obvious  un- 
certainty of  everything  in  this  our  earthly  experi- 
ence magnifies  our  joys,  and  puts,  as  it  were, 
a  cutting  edge  upon  our  powers  of  appreciation. 

If  one  could  be  absolutely  assured,  argue  these 
wise  philosophers,  that  one's  friends  would  never 
die,  one's  house  never  burn  down,  one's  invest- 
ments never  fail,  life  would  become  of  a  sudden 
utterly  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable.  It  is  the  keen 
sparkle  of  the  unexpected,  the  undreamed  of,  even 
the  apprehended,  which  makes  the  draught  in  any 
wise  palatable. 

Philura  Pettibone  watched  the  gradual  unfold- 
ing of  her  rose  of  life  with  a  tremor  back  of  the 
joy.  But  it  was  no  less  a  joy,  for  all  that,  and 
after  months  of  peaceful  and  undisputed  posses- 
sion of  the  child  she  almost  forgot  the  tragic  face 
of  his  young  mother. — Almost,  but  not  quite; 
there  was  the  picture  of  the  Huguenot  Lovers 
still  hanging  on  the  parlor  wall. 

She  had  named  the  baby  Stephen  after  his  un- 
known father,  in  a  sudden  passion  of  sentiment. 


MISS  PHILURA'S  BABY  331 

Afterward  slie  regretted  her  haste.  There  were 
so  many  splendid  names  for  men,  and  Stephen 
did  so  put  one  in  mind  of  the  first  martyr.  She 
preferred  not  to  think  of  martyrs  when  she  looked 
at  the  baby.  And  he  teas  a  baby,  as  Bishop  Brooks 
used  to  say  to  the  delighted  mothers  of  his  con- 
gregation. Not  even  the  latest  Puffer  could  show 
such  sparkling  blue  eyes. — She  was  glad  his  eyes 
were  blue,  and  not  big  and  dark  and  passionate, 
like  his  poor  mother's.  And  his  hair  curled — 
really  curled,  you  know,  not  merely  stood  on  end 
under  diligent  applications  of  a  wet  hair-brush. 
He  was  pink — as  pink  as  a  healthy  baby  ought 
to  be,  and  of  exactly  the  right  fatness.  In  a  word, 
little  Stephen  Pettibone  (as  he  was  actually  chris- 
tened by  the  minister  in  church,  of  a  Sunday 
morning)  was  a  baby  any  woman  might  be  proud 
to  mother. 

It  was  wonderful,  too,  what  an  all-round  dif- 
ference the  baby  in  the  parsonage  made.  Female 
parishioners  of  a  critical,  even  censorious  turn 
of  mind,  who  had  heretofore  merely  scarified  the 
minister's  sermons,  now  stopped  him  in  the  street 
to  ask  after  the  baby.  The  fame  of  the  baby  went 
abroad,  as  it  were,  in  all  the  land.  Hard-fisted 
old  farmers,  driving  loads  of  produce  to  town, 
broke  into  broad  smiles  at  sight  of  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone wheeling  the  perambulator.  People  came 
to  call  at  the  parsonage  who  had  never  before 
darkened  the  door  of  the  ministerial  domicile. 


332  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

The  baby,  in  short,  was  like  a  cheerful  little  fire, 
newly  kindled  on  a  cold  hearth;  people  stretched 
their  hands  toward  him  with  smiles,  tardily 
realising  how  cold  and  frost-bitten  they  had  been. 
And  the  baby,  basking  in  the  universal  approba- 
tion, thrived  and  grew  like  a  lusty  little  tree  in 
the  sunshine. 

'*  Every  single  day,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  confided 
to  the  minister,  ''he  is  sweeter  and  lovelier  than 
he  was  yesterday." 

The  minister  formed  the  habit  of  sauntering 
about  till  after  the  baby  had  had  his  bath.  He 
found,  to  his  surprise,  that  he  could  write  bet- 
ter and  more  easily  than  ever  before;  his  asso- 
ciation with  the  baby  appeared  to  have  opened 
up  entirely  new  regions  of  Biblical  truth.  It  was 
surprising  how  many  trenchant  sayings  relating  to 
children  there  were  in  the  Bible.  Mr.  Pettibone 
had  not  noticed  them  before,  being  occupied  with 
such  themes  as  total  depravity,  the  state  of  the 
unsaved  soul  after  death,  and  kindred  subjects 
suited  to  the  joyless  adult  idea  of  Christianity. 

Love  had  already  done  much  for  the  Rever- 
end Silas  Pettibone;  but  there  had  remained  an 
unsunned  side  of  his  nature  of  which  he  himself 
was  only  dimly  conscious,  so  the  moon  may  be  cog- 
nisant of  the  cold  sterility  of  its  darkened  hemi- 
sphere. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  loyally  believed  her  husband 
to  be  quite  perfect  as  he  was;  but  she  was  not 


MISS  PHILURA'S  BABY  333 

blind  to  tlie  change  in  Mm.  She  spent  hours  in 
secret,  teaching  the  baby  to  say  a  single  word. 
Then  one  morning,  wonderful  to  relate,  her  pupil 
— prefacing  his  initial  effort  at  speech  with  a  rav- 
ishing smile — said  "  Poppa!  " 

It  was  a  proud  moment  for  both  of  them;  and 
it  was  on  that  very  morning  that,  for  the  first  time, 
Mr.  Pettibone  put  into  words  his  own  secret  mis- 
givings. 

' '  If  we  'd  never  had  him, ' '  he  observed,  thought- 
fully, "  we  shouldn't  have  known  what  we  were 
missing." 

*'  I  should  have  known,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
with  a  wise  smile. 

She  could  say  it  now,  without  painful  blushes. 

He  looked  at  her  intently,  observing  with  secret 
wonder  the  changes  wrought  by  her  quasi-mother- 
hood.  She  had  certainly  grown  plumper ;  her  eyes 
and  cheeks  and  lips  had  taken  on  a  look  of  youth; 
the  lines  of  her  arms  and  shoulders  had  changed 
subtly — as  arms  and  shoulders  will  under  a  burden, 
daily  growing  heavier,  yet  always  more  beloved. 

"  But  if  they  should  come  now,  to  take  him," 
he  went  on,  "I'm  afraid " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  putting  on  the  baby's  cloak 
preparatory  to  taking  him  out  for  an  airing.  She 
successfully  extracted  one  pink  fist  from  the  sleeve 
she  had  first  made  into  a  nest ;  then  proceeded  to 
rumple  up  the  other  in  a  way  Mrs.  Puffer  had 
taught  her. 


334  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

<<  "VVliy  do  you  say  that,"  she  asked,  reproach- 
fully, "  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  forget  about 
it?  " 

She  kissed  the  baby  passionately  in  the  nape 
of  his  neck,  where  fuzzy  yellow  curls  were  be- 
ginning to  take  advantage  of  his  improved  habits 
in  the  way  of  sitting  up. 

''  Do  you  know  he's  nine  months  old,  Silas? 
He'll  soon  be  a  year;  and  we  haven't  heard  a 
word  from  any  of  them.  .  .  .  Never  mind,  Pre- 
cious, he  didn't  like  to  have  his  bonnet  tied;  'deed 
he  didn't;  but  now  he's  going  day-day.  .  .  . 
There!  " 

She  achieved  a  smart  bow  under  the  protesting 
chin. 

"  Take  him  a  minute,  dear,  while  I  put  on  my 
hat  and  wheel  the  carriage  out.  He's  sleepy;  he'll 
be  sound  the  minute  I  take  him  out." 

She  was  tucking  the  baby  snugly  into  his  per- 
ambulator— for,  though  it  was  April  and  the  big 
maples  were  already  brave  with  scarlet  blossoms, 
the  wind  still  flourished  a  keen  edge  which  put 
one  in  mind  of  blue-white  snows  and  unmelted 
ice  to  the  northward.  Mrs,  Wessels,  her  head 
draped  in  a  plaid  tea-towel,  stood  looking  on. 
That  worthy  woman  was  armed  with  a  broom  and 
dust-pan,  and  her  face  was  drawn  into  myriad 
puckers  and  folds  of  deliberate  thought. 

*'  My,    my!  "    she    exclaimed.    ''  Who'd     'a* 


MISS  PHILUEA'S  BABY  335 

thought  one  short  year  ago  I'd  be  a-standin'  here 
on  th'  pars'nage  stoop  a-watchin'  Mis'  Pettibone 
all  took  up  with  a  baby!  'S  I  was  sayin'  t'  Wes- 
sels  only  yest'd'y,  ^  She  couldn't  be  no  more  took 
up,'  I  sez,  '  ef  it  was  her  own  child.'  'N'  Wes- 
sels,  he  sez — it's  wonderful  how  he  thinks  things 
out,  a-settin'  there  b'  th'  stove — '  She  mightn't 
be  took  up  half  s'  much,'  he  sez,  pos'tive,  '  ef  't 
was  her  baby.'  'N'  I  guess  that's  so,  come  t' 
think  of  it.  .  .  .  You'd  feel  easier,  'n'  more  in- 
differ'nt  like  in  your  mind,  ef " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  think  so,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Pettibone,  grasping  the  handle  of  the 
perambulator  firmly. 

She  appeared  slightly  defiant,  as  if  Mrs.  Wes- 
sels  had  unwittingly  touched  upon  a  subject  al- 
ready uppermost  in  her  mind. 

''  The  baby  is  mine,"  she  added,  positively, 
" — just  as  much  mine  as  if " 

''  But  you  ain't  'dopted  it  legal,  have  you?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Wessels,  more  for  the  sake  of  sus- 
taining her  pose  of  easeful  contemplation  than 
for  any  information  she  hoped  to  elicit. 

''  When  you  sweep  the  parlour  to-day,  Mrs. 
"Wessels,  I'd  like  you  to  wipe  off  the  windows," 
said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  pointedly  ignoring  the 
question.  She  added  that  the  windows  in  ques- 
tion were  very  dusty. 

"  Yes,  I  know  they  be,"  agreed  Mrs.  Wessels, 
with  a  mournful  sigh;  "  I  noticed  they  looked 


336  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

sometliin'  terrible  's  I  come  along  this  mornin'; 
'n'  I  sez  t'  m'self,  '  Louisa  Wessels/  I  sez,  '  if 
you  have  th'  time  an'  stren'th  t'-day  you  mus' 
git  'round  t'  wash  off  them  winders  f 'r  Mis'  Petti- 
bone.  They're  a  disgrace  t'  th'  pars'nage,'  I  sez, 
'  all  streaked  an'  gormed  up.'  .  .  .  But  I  dunno; 
I  got  an  awful  gone  feelin'  t'  th'  pit  o'  my  stom- 
iek  t'-day.  I  sez  t'  Wessels  this  mornin',  ef  'twas 
anybody  but  Mis'  Pettibone  I  was  goin'  to  work 
for,  I  b'lieve  I'd  stay  t'  home  an'  take  care  o' 
m'self.'  But  I  knowed  you  wa'n't  one  t'  take 
advantage  o'  nobody;  so  I  come,  an'  I'll  do  m' 
best.  Ef  I  c'n  git  'round  t'  them  winders,  I  will; 
ef  I  can't,  jus'  you  take  a  little  kur'seen  on  a  rag 
'n'  do  'em  yourself.  'Twon't  take  you  no  time. 
But  I  wouldn't  leave  'em  that-a-way  'nother  week, 
ef  I  was  you.  Looks  reel  slack.  .  .  .  Where 'd 
you  say  I'd  find  the  tea?  Guess  I'll  make  me  a 
cup  b'fore  I  do  another  lick  o'  work — ef  you  don't 
want  I  sh'd  drop  right  down  in  m'  tracks.  .  .  . 
'N '  when  I  think  o '  AVessels  an '  all  them  childern 
a-hangin'  t'  m'  skirts,  an'  me  a-doin'  day's  work 
fer  th'  vittles  they  put  in  their  mouths,  it  doos 
seem  like  I'd  ought  t'  take  care  o'  m'self;  now, 
don't  it?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  moved  slowly  toward  the 
gate  during  this  exordium,  pushing  the  peram- 
bulator before  her.  She  was  embarked  upon  the 
smooth  expanse  of  sidewalk  beyond,  when  she 
again  heard  the  pursuing  voice  of  Mrs.  Wessels, 


MISS  PHILURA'S  BABY  337 

and  glancing  back  beheld  that  lady  leaning 
reposefully  upon  the  fence,  the  checkered 
towel  about  her  head  fluttering  gaily  in  the 
wind. 

"  'N',  oh,  say!  Mis  Pettibone!  "  she  called  out, 
'^  goin'  t'  th'  meat-market?  ...  I  thought  mebbe 
you  was.  I  didn't  see  nothin'  but  scraps  o'  bacon 
in  the  ice-chest.  I  jus'  wanted  t'  tell  you,  ef  you 
was  plannin'  f'r  my  dinner,  let  it  be  pork-chops. 
The'  ain't  nothin'  more  tasty  ner  stren'thnin'. 
.  .  .  What,  'm'?  You  don't  think  so?  'N'  you 
say  th'  minister  don't  like  'em  t'  work  on?  Wy, 
land!  th'  ain't  any  vittles  I  know  of  'at  stan's  by 
you  like  fresh  pork.  ...  'N',  ef  it  ain't  too  much 
trouble — seein'  you  got  th'  baby  kerridge  'n'  c'n 
bring  it  jus'  's  well  's  not — fetch  me  ten  cents' 
worth  o'  cat-meat.  .  .  .  Yes'm,  cat-meat  's  what 
I  said.  It  makes  lovely  soup.  You  didn't  know 
it?  .  .  .  Bein'  the  minister's  wife  you'll  likely 
git  a  good  bag  full.  You  don't  need  t'  let  on  it's 
fer  me.  Tell  Kelly  your  cat  eats  reel  hearty. 
He  doos,  f'r  I  seen  him  at  th'  baby's  milk 
yest'd'y.  .  .  .  Oh,  didn't  you  know?  I  tipped 
it  over  gettin'  some  f'r  m'  tea.  Th'  cat  licked 
it  up.  Yes'm,  saved  me  th'  trouble  o'  gettin' 
down  on  m'  ban's  'n'  knees.  A  cat's  useful  that- 
a-way.  ...  I'm  goin'  in  now.  .  .  .  If  th'  door- 
bell rings  d'  you  want  I  should  call  th'  min- 
ister? .  .  .  Ef  it's  a  pedlar,  I  won't?  No'm. 
But  's  I  tell  Wessel.^^ " 


338  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  already  passed  out  of  hear- 
ing, trundling  the  carriage  with  its  hood  snugly 
drawn  against  the  assaults  of  the  wind.  She 
stopped  at  the  post-office,  and  the  postmaster 
handed  her  two  religious  papers,  an  advertise- 
ment of  a  church  organ,  and  a  letter,  directed  in 
a  firm,  masculine  hand  to  Mr.  Pettibone.  She 
tucked  the  mail  under  the  baby's  blanket  for  safe- 
keeping and  proceeded  on  her  way. 

Miss  Electa  Pratt,  arrayed  bleakly  in  a  new 
spring  suit  of  black  and  white  check  and  a  hat 
bristling  with  ribbon  bows  and  impossible  flow- 
ers, was  just  issuing  from  the  portals  of  the 
Trimmer  Emporium. 

"  Good  morning,  Philura,"  she  said.  "  And 
hoiv  is  the  baby? — Dear  me,  I  can't  get  used  to 
seein'  you  out  with  it.  I  sh'd  think  you'd  feel 
kind  o'  queer." 

"  Queer?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

She  took  advantage  of  the  pause  in  her  prog- 
ress to  peep  under  the  hood.  The  baby  was  sleep- 
ing soundly,  his  long  dark  lashes  resting  lightly 
on  the  warm  rose  of  his  cheek.  Miss  Pratt  peeped, 
too. 

''  Isn't  he  an  awful  care?  "  she  asked.  "  I  no- 
tice you  don't  get  time  for  Ladies'  Aid  any  more, 
and  you're  hardly  ever  at  church." 

* '  Once  in  a  while  Milly  Orne  takes  care  of  him 
for  me,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  said.  ''  I  wouldn't  trust 
him  with  anyone  else." 


MISS  PHILUEA'S  BABY  339 

Miss  Pratt's  greenish  eyes  glittered  -unpleas- 
antly. 

''  Well,  I've  found  out  where  you  got  him," 
she  said.  ' '  You  might  's  well  've  told  in  the  first 
place." 

''  You've  found  out?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

Instinctively  she  braced  herself  for  what  might 
be  coming. 

Miss  Pratt  giggled. 

' '  'Tain't  so  hard  t'  see  through  a  mill-stone  with 
a  hole  in  it,  once  you  take  notice  of  the  hole," 
she  remarked,  acidly.  "  He's  the  child  of  that 
young  woman  who  was  up  to  the  Eggleston  farm 
last  summer.  She  ran  away  and  left  it,  an'  the 
other  woman  gave  it  to  you." 

There  was  feline  enjoyment  in  the  eyes  she  fixed 
upon  Phihira  Pettibone 's  agitated  face. 

' '  That  don 't  surprise  you  none,  of  course ;  but 
mebbe  this  will:  Their  name  wasn't  Hill,  at  all; 
but  Cruden.  The  day  Al  Fisher  took  the  trunks 
down  from  the  farm  I  happened  t'  be  at  the  sta- 
tion inquiring  for  a  package;  so  I  took  a  good 
look  at  'em.  They  was  all  marked  C.  and  one 
of  'em  had  a  card  tacked  on  to  it  'at  had  b'en 
scratched  off  with  a  pencil.  'S  luck  would  have 
it,  I  had  an  eraser  in  my  bag,  so  I  rubbed  it  off 
an'  copied  down  what  I  see.    It  was " 

"  Electa!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pettibone,  weakly. 

''  Oh,  you  don't  think  it  was  reel  nice  f'r  me 
to  find  out  somethin'  about  your  baby'?    Well,  I 


340  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

tliouglit  it  was  my  Clir-r-istian  duty.  You  want  I 
should  tell  you  what  I  see  on  that  card?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  drew  a  tremulous  breath. 

* '  I  don 't — know, ' '  she  murmured.     ' '  I ' ' 

' '  I  guess  you  do, ' '  said  Miss  Pratt.  ' '  Anyway, 
I  was  comin'  t'  tell  th'  minister  this  mornin' — I 
jus'  got  th'  letter." 

The  flowers  in  the  new  spring  hat  rustled  like 
dried  cat-tails  in  the  cold  wind. 

''  I  don't  believe  I Please  don't,  Electa." 

"I'd  listen,  ef  I  was  you,"  advised  Miss  Pratt, 
strongly.  ''  You'll  have  t'  know,  first  er  last. 
The  name  on  that  card  was  Mrs.  Alexander 
Cruden,  Chilworth  Gardens,  Ch'cago.  .  .  .  They 
came  far  enough  away  from  home,  anybody  'd 
s'pose.  But  as  it  happens,  Ma  has  a  cousin  livin' 
out  in  Ch'cago,  so  I  wrote  t'  her  an'  asked  a 
few  questions.  She  didn't  answer  for  a  long 
while,  an'  I'd  about  give  up;  but,  yeste'd'y " 

''  The  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  in  a  small, 
weak  voice,  "  is  waking  up.  I — I  must  be  going 
home. ' ' 

"  I'll  walk  right  along  with  you,  Philura,"  vol- 
unteered Miss  Pratt,  amiably.  "I'd  like  t'  show 
Mr.  Pettibone  the  letter  I  got  from  my  cousin, 
Matilda  Slicer — she's  an  own  cousin  o'  Ma's  on 
the  Smith  side.  .  .  .  You  don't  want  I  should? 
Well,  I  mus'  say  you're  grateful!  But  you  can't 
prevent  me  from  tellin'  Mr.  Pettibone,  even  if  you 
did  manage  t'  marry  him,  with  your  wonderful 


MISS  PHILURA'S  BABY  341 

neiv  thought.  Oh,  I  know  how  you  worked  it, 
Philura;  and  th's  others " 

But  Philura  Pettibone  had  fled  hastily  down 
a  side  street,  and  Miss  Pratt  forbore  to  follow. 
She  was  anxious  to  stop  at  her  friend,  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn's, who  would,  she  was  confident,  appreciate 
to  the  full  the  news  of  which  she  was  at  present 
sole  proprietor  and  purveyor.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Pettibone,  as  was  his  invariable  custom, 
permitted  his  morning  mail  to  lie  unopened  on 
the  hall-table;  this  method  of  procedure  tending 
to  a  more  complete  concentration  of  mind  on 
topics  of  an  other  worldly  nature.  There  was  not 
infrequently  food  for  disturbing  thought  in  the 
parti-coloured  envelopes,  bearing  tradesmen's 
names  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner.  It  was 
true  that  his  church,  after  strenuous  and  con- 
certed effort,  had  at  the  time  of  his  marriage  i^aid 
all  arrears  of  his  salary  in  full.  But  since  that 
date  the  brethren  had  lapsed  into  an  easeful  com- 
placence, in  view  of  the  well-known  frugality  of 
the  second  Mrs.  Pettibone.  Everybody  in  Innis- 
field  knew  that  Philura  Eice  had  been  as  poor  as 
the  proverbial  church  mouse.  Ergo :  she  was  well 
accustomed  to  strenuous  economy;  and  it  would 
be  a  pity,  indeed,  to  encourage  the  sinful  extrava- 
gance which  would  undoubtedly  obtain  in  the  min- 
isterial domicile  under  the  urge  of  temptation  in 
the  subtle  guise  of  a  promptly  paid  salary.  The 
minister's  digestion  being  slightly  im^Daired,  the 


342  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

letters  were  frequently  allowed  a  still  longer 
period  of  neglect,  while  he  played  with  the  baby. 
The  baby,  newly  awakened  from  his  nap,  was  in 
capital  form  for  a  frolic,  and  Mr.  Pettibone  had 
acquired  the  useful  and  pleasant  habit  of  devot- 
ing himself  to  the  small,  bright-eyed  tyrant,  while 
his  wife  washed  the  dinner  dishes. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  not  yet  spoken  to  her  hus- 
band of  Electa  Pratt's  officious  detective  work. 
He  would  be  indignant,  she  was  sure;  and,  after 
all.  Electa  had  discovered  nothing  of  any  real  im- 
portance. She  recollected,  as  she  polished  the 
glasses,  that  the  young  woman  had  said  her  name 
was  Sylvia  Cruden,  on  the  occasion  of  their  first 
meeting  in  the  Eggleston  woods.  Of  course, 
Electa 's  discoveries  would  soon  become  common 
property,  with  such  ingenious  addenda  as  Miss 
Slicer,  the  Western  cousin,  chose  to  write  and 
Electa  to  invent.  It  was  all  very  disagreeable; 
but  it  could  not  affect  her  secure  possession  of 
the  baby. 

She  could  hear  his  chuckles  of  infantile  glee 
and  the  forensic  voice  of  Mr.  Pettibone,  as  he  re- 
cited Mother  Goose  rhymes  for  the  baby's  delecta- 
tion. She  smiled  happily  to  herself.  Electa 
Pratt  might  talk  all  she  liked;  so  might  Mrs. 
Buckthorn;  so  might  the  parish  at  large.  She 
hoped  they  would  enjoy  it. 

Mrs.  Wessels  had  finished  the  sweeping,  in  her 
own  peculiar  way — a  way  Philura  Pettibone  would 


MISS  PHILUEA'S  BABY  343 

not  have  ''  put  up  with  "  a  few  short  months  ago. 
But  when  one  had  a  baby  to  care  for,  other  things 
must  stand  aside.  Mrs.  Wessels  had  not,  it  was 
plain,  sufficient  strength  to  wash  the  windows 
in  the  parlour.  It  was  early — only  half-past  one, 
indeed — when  Mrs.  Pettibone  set  the  last  clean 
dish  upon  the  shelf.  She  decided  that  she  would 
wash  the  windows  herself.  The  baby  would  be 
good;  he  was  always  good;  she  would  arrange  his 
toys  on  a  thick  comfort  on  the  parlour  floor  and 
circumscribe  his  activities  with  the  indispensable 
"  Yard."  She  would  then  be  free  to  remove  the 
indubitable  traces  of  small  moist  fingers  from 
the  window-panes.  Mrs.  Wessels  had  referred 
to  them  as  a  disgrace  to  the  parsonage.  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone reflected  that  she  would  have  unqualifiedly 
agreed  with  Mrs.  Wessels  at  an  earlier  stage  of 
her  career.  She  recalled  her  unspoken,  but  no  less 
harsh,  criticisms  of  Mrs.  Putfer's  window-glass. 
Now,  she  thought  she  rather  liked  it.  It  looked 
as  if  there  were  children  in  the  house.  She  said 
it  plainly  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  thoughts,  and 
the  words  brought  a  delicate  kindling  of  hope  to 
cheeks  and  eyes. 

She  was  still  looking  very  pink  and  pretty  when 
she  authoritatively  interrupted  the  frolic  in  the 
study.  The  baby,  she  explained,  must  have  his 
dinner  at  once ;  and  she  hoped  Mr.  Pettibone  had 
not  forgotten  the  meeting  of  the  C.  E.  Conven- 
tion Committee  in  the  prayer-meeting  room,  at 


344  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

three.  In  reply  to  a  lialf-liearted  inquiry,  she 
stated  that  in  her  opinion  his  second-best  preach- 
ing suit  would  be  plenty  good  enough  for  the 
occasion. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Mr.  Pettibone's 
divided  attention  became  centred  upon  his  mail, 
which  Mrs.  Pettibone  kindly  deposited  upon  his 
writing-table;  then  she  held  out  her  arms  for  the 
baby.  There  was  a  moment  of  delicious  triumph 
for  the  minister,  when  the  small  despot  turned 
from  the  cajoling  smile  of  the  lady  to  hide  his 
curly  head  against  his  breast. 

' '  He  likes  me !  "  cried  Mr.  Pettibone,  with  fer- 
vid conviction,  tempered  only  by  an  amazed  in- 
credulity. 

*'  Of  course  he  does!  "  chimed  in  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone, as  she  captured  the  baby  and  bore  him  away 
in  triumph. 

"  He  loves  his  daddy,  b'ess  him!  "  he  heard  her 
cooing  on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  .  .  . 

The  religious  newspapers  received  a  passing 
glance,  promising  an  hour  of  future  enjoyment; 
the  alluring  advertisement  of  church  organs,  a 
renunciatory  sigh  as  it  found  lodgment  in  an  over- 
crowded waste-basket;  but  upon  the  letter,  ad- 
dressed to  himself  in  an  unknown  hand  and  post- 
marked with  the  name  of  a  distant  city,  he  spent 
a  motionless,  abstracted  half  hour. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  LORD  GAVE 

It  lacked  a  quarter  of  three  by  the  gloomy,  black 
marble  clock  (presented  by  an  admiring  i^arish, 
on  the  occasion  of  his  first  marriage)  when  Mr. 
Pettibone,  his  hair  very  much  rumpled  and  a  wor- 
ried, almost  distracted  expression  on  his  kind, 
grave  face,  stepped  across  to  the  parlour. 

'*  My  dear  Philura "he  began;  then  stopped 

to  rumple  his  hair  afresh  with  a  distraught 
gesture. 

<<  Why,  Silas!  "  she  cried,  turning  from  a  com- 
prehensive polishing  of  the  lower  left-hand  pane 
of  the  front  window — which  being  of  a  cheap, 
greenish  glass  but  ill  rewarded  her  labours. 
''  You  are  not  even  dressed;  and  that  meet- 
ing  " 

She  paused  to  remove  the  handle  of  the  baby's 
rattle-box  from  a  too  close  proximity  to  his  wind- 
pipe. 

"  That's  the  third  time!  "  she  announced;  ''  he 
seems  possessed  to  ram  that  celluloid  thing  down 
his  blessed  little  throat." 

She  surveyed  the  article  in  question  with  se- 
verely critical  eyes. 

*'  I  should  think  anybody  would  know  better 

345 


346  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILURA 

than  to  make  a  toy  like  that  for  a  baby,"  she  said. 
'*  I  sha'n't  let  him  have  it  any  more,  Silas, — if 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  did  give  it  to  him.  She  says  all 
her  children  cut  their  teeth  on  it.  But  I  don't 
care  if  they  did.  That  doesn't  make  it  any 
better." 

Mr.  Pettibone  glanced  distractedly  about  the 
room. 

"  I — er — don't  you  think,  my  dear,  you'd  bet- 
ter leave  the — er — windows  in  this  room  till  an- 
other day?  "  he  inquired,  rather  wildly.  ''  I — 
I — it  seems  to  me " 

''  Silas,  you'll  certainly  be  late  at  that  com- 
mittee meeting,"  declared  Mrs.  Pettibone,  look- 
ing up  from  a  rapturous  cuddle  of  the  baby.  .  .  . 
"  Isn't  he  the  sweetest  thing?  "  she  added, 
irrelevantly. 

' '  Lord — Lord !  ' '  groaned  Mr.  Pettibone. 

He  dropped  into  a  chair,  as  if  spent  with 
emotion. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Silas?  "  demanded 
Mrs,  Pettibone,  tardily  aware  of  his  perturba- 
tion. 

She  gazed  searchingly  at  him. 

"Is  it  your  stomach?  I  knew  I  ought  not  to 
have  those  pork-chops  for  dinner.  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
Silas?  " 

''  I — I  can't,"  muttered  the  minister.  ''  I 
might  have  known — It's  my  fault.  ...  If  I'd 
only '* 


.  THE  LOED  GAVE  347 

She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
the  baby  pressed  against  her  breast. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  You — you've 
heard  something " 

Her  steadfast  eyes  wavered  for  an  instant  as 
her  lips  sought  the  crown  of  the  curly  little  head. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  begged. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  They — er — just  found  out,"  he  began,  avoid- 
ing her  eyes.    ''  The  letter  was  from " 

"  Yes?  "  she  breathed.  '^  And — they  are  com- 
ing  1  " 

' '  To-day, ' '  he  said.  * '  You  must — They  may  be 
here  at  any  moment." 

"  They  sha'n't  have  him,  Silas!  "  she  cried,  in 
a  breaking  voice.  *'  I — I  can't  give  him  up — I 
can 't !     I  love  him  so !  " 

''  My  dear,"  he  said,  gravely.    "  My  dear!  " 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  long  look.  .  .  . 

She  held  out  the  child  to  him  with  a  renunciatory 
gesture. 

"  Take  him,  please.  I  must  put  this  room  to 
rights  before " 

It  was  all  over  before  the  black  marble  clock 
on  the  mantle  told  the  hour  of  four.  Like  other 
dreaded  crises  in  life,  it  arrived  quietly  enough 
— this  time  in  the  shabby  guise  of  a  depot  hack 
drawn  up  before  the  parsonage  gate.  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone  stood  in  the  window,  the  child  in  her  arms, 
and  watched  the  two  young  figures  emerge  from 


348  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

its  stuffy  interior  and  hurry  up  the  walk.  The 
girl  had  been  crying,  she  noticed;  she  was  dressed 
somberly  in  black.  The  man  at  her  side  bent  his 
tall  head,  as  if  to  encourage  her  with  murmured 
words,  as  they  paused  for  an  instant  in  the  sparse 
shadow  of  a  budding  lilac.  The  girl  looked  up  at 
him,  a  lovely  smile  breaking  over  her  face.  Then 
the  bell  jangled  noisily. 

As  had  been  agreed  upon  beforehand,  Mr.  Pet- 
tibone  opened  the  door.  She  heard  a  brief  ques- 
tion, a  briefer  answer;  then  the  parlour  door 
closed  quietly.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  she  stood  there  gaz- 
ing out  of  the  window,  the  child  held  close  against 
her  breast.  .  .  .  The  baby  whimpered  a  little  and 
twisted  his  rosy  face  toward  hers.  ''  He  wants  to 
go  out  in  his  carriage,"  she  thought,  with  an  un- 
controllable throb  of  pain.  .  .  .  Then  at  last  the 
door  opened,  and  the  minister,  very  pale  and 
grave,  stood  gazing  at  her  compassionately  from 
the  threshold. 

After  a  moment  of  indecision  he  came  in,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  him. 

"  The  young  woman's  mother  is  dead." 

He  uttered  the  words  tentatively — almost 
humbly. 

She  offered  no  comment. 

"  It  seems  Mrs.  Maitland  knew  nothing  of  the 
child's  existence,"  he  went  on,  hurriedly,  ''  until 
— her  mother  sent  for  her,  the  day  before  her 


THE  LORD  GAVE  349 

death.  Up  to  that  time  Mrs.  Cruden  had  refused 
to  communicate  with  her  daughter.  ...  I  should 
explain,  perhaps,  that  Hill  was  a  family  name,  as- 
sumed merely  for  convenience." 

The  child's  impatient  whimper  changed  to  a 
fretful  cry. 

"  He  wants  me  to  take  him  out,"  she  said,  in  a 
clear,  colourless  voice.  "  He  is  used  to  going 
out  at  this  time." 

Mr.  Pettibone  took  two  steps  toward  her,  his 
face  twitching  strangely. 

"  My  dear!  "  he  murmured,  ^'  you  will  be 
brave ?    You  won't " 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  turned  again  toward 
the  door. 

"  Their  name,"  he  said,  slowly,  "■  is  Maitland. 
— You  will  come  now  and — speak  to  them?  " 

She  walked  steadily  across  the  hall,  hushing  the 
child  in  her  arms,  mechanically. 

''  He  shall  go  out,  pretty  soon,"  she  was  mur- 
muring. "  So  he  shall !  Mother  will  put  his  coat 
on,  and  his  little  bonnet." 

The  young  woman  was  standing  by  the  win- 
dow, her  handkerchief  crumpled  into  a  moist  lit- 
tle ball  clutched  in  one  hand.  She  turned  swiftly 
— her  eyes  fastening  upon  the  child  in  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone's  arms. 

**  Is  that  my  baby?  "  she  asked. 

She  did  not  look  at  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

*'  My  wife,"  said  the  young  man,  rather  stiffly, 


350  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

'^  has  been  very  much  upset  by  the  suddenness 
of  her  mother's  death;  perhaps  you  will — under- 
stand." 

"  I — understand,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

The  baby  had  turned  from  the  stranger  in  the 
large  black  hat  and  was  hiding  his  face  in  her 
neck,  with  little  whimpering  cries. 

'*  He  is  afraid,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  explained. 
^*  He  doesn't  like  black." 

"  Oh,  but  he  mustn't  be  afraid  of  me!  He's 
my  baby.  Come  to  mother,  darling!  .  .  .  Oh, 
Stephen,  isn't  he  a  dear?  And  he  looks  like  you; 
his  eyes " 

"  The  baby's  name,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  stead- 
ily, "  is  Stephen." 

' '  How  nice  of  you !  .  .  .  But  I  could  have 
changed  it,  you  know,  if  you'd  called  him  any- 
thing else.  Of  course  he  had  to  be  named  after 
his  father." 

Her  large  dark  eyes  sought  her  husband's  in- 
quiringly. He  had  taken  his  watch  from  his 
pocket. 

"  We  haven't  much  time,"  he  told  her. 

Mrs.  Maitland  glanced  doubtfully  at  the  min- 
ister's wife. 

"  I'll  get  his  things  ready,"  Mrs.  Pettibone 
offered,  quietly.  ''  You — you'll  want  everything, 
of  course!  " 

The  young  mother  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  think  we  have  time,"  she  objected. 


THE  LORD  GAVE  351 

*  *  We  can  buy  everything,  you  know ;  and  we  must 
get  the  express  from  Boston  to-night.  Do  let 
me  take  him !  He  '11  have  to  get  used  to  his  mother 
— the  darling!  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  much 
about  babies;  but  we'll  hire  a  nurse  for  him  right 
away. ' ' 

The  child's  desolate  little  cry  pursued  her  as 
she  hurried  from  the  room;  she  could  hear,  too, 
the  futile  attempts  of  the  young  parents  to  quiet 
him.  His  pitiful  complainings  rang  in  her  ears 
while  she  hastily  rolled  some  little  garments  into 
an  awkward  bundle.  They  could  buy  everything. 
And  they  would  hire  a  nurse  for  him.  .  .  . 

At  the  supreme  moment  of  parting  young  Mrs. 
Maitland  appeared  to  be  visited  by  a  transient 
gleam  of  comprehension. 

''  I  suppose  you'll  really  miss  him,"  she  said, 
brightly.  ''  And  I  haven't  even  thanked  you,  dear 
Mrs.  Pettibone.  What  must  you  think  of  me? 
But  I  do  appreciate — everything,  more  than  I  can 
say.  ...  If    mother    had    only    told    me    about 

baby Poor  mother!    She  meant  to  be  kind. 

.  .  .  You  will  let  us — pay  you  for  taking  care  of 
him  all  these  months?  He  must  have  cost  a  lot; 
and  we  are  rich,  you  know,  now  that  poor 
mother " 

But  at  this,  Mrs.  Pettibone,  who  had  preserved 
her  usual  tranquil,  even  smiling,  demeanour — to 
the  uneasy  wonderment  of  her  husband — drew 
back. 


t 


352  THE  HEAET  OF  PHILUEA 

"  Pay  me?  "  slie  breathed.  ''  Pay  me — for 
taking  care  of — my  baby?  " 

The  minister  listened  to  her  movements  in  the 
room  over  his  study  for  quite  half  an  hour  after 
the  depot  hack  had  rolled  away.  It  was  very  quiet 
in  the  house,  save  for  those  hushed  footfalls  on 
the  floor  above.  She  had  chosen  it  for  the  baby's 
nursery  because  of  the  morning  sun  which 
streamed  in  through  its  three  windows.  Mr.  Pet- 
tibone  sat  very  still,  huddled  together  in  his  study- 
chair,  a  desolate  sense  of  bereavement  deepening 
within  him.  Many  times  he  had  stood  calmly 
above  a  little  casket,  voicing  those  words  of  the 
universal  heart-break:  "  The  Lord  gave,  and  the 
Lord  hath  taken  away;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Lord!  " 

He  tried  to  repeat  them  now ;  but  the  words  died 
upon  his  lips. 

The  sounds  in  the  room  above  had  ceased,  and 
the  silence  beat  heavily  upon  his  ears.  He  com- 
pelled himself  to  get  to  his  feet — to  ascend  the 
stair. 

'^  The  Lord  gave,   and   the   Lord   hath   taken 

away "    He  must,  somehow,  manage  to  convey 

comfort  to  that  sorely  stricken  heart.  .  .  . 

She  sat  quite  still  in  the  gathering  dusk,  over 
against  the  window  looking  toward  the  east. 
There  were  small  finger-marks  upon  the  pane.  He 
remembered  that  only  that  morning  she  had  sat 


THE  LORD  GAVE  353 

there,  the  baby  on  her  knee,  looking  out  at  him 
as  he  raked  the  sodden  leaves,  and  the  child  had 
beat  npon  the  glass  with  its  rosy  palms.  He 
crossed  the  room  on  tiptoe  and  knelt  down  at 
her  side,  and  putting  his  arms  about  her  pressed 
his  wet  cheek  to  hers. 

"  Why,  Silas,"  she  said,  stirring  a  little. 
<<  Why,  my  dear " 

She  had  not  been  weeping  then.  He  experi- 
enced a  vague  sense  of  bewilderment,  not  un- 
mixd  with  fear.  Then  all  at  once  he  perceived 
that  she  was  smiling,  her  face  dimly  luminous 
in  the  dusk  of  the  April  evening. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  said,  slowly,  ''  about — 
him. ' ' 

''  Yes,  dear,"  he  murmured;  his  spent  breath 
sounding  very  like  a  sob. 

''  From  the  very  first  day — you  remember, 
Silas?    And — ever  since." 

Her  empty  hands  suddenly  tightened  in  her  lap. 

' '  I  hope, ' '  she  said,  ' '  that  his  nurse — will  love 
him. — She  said  she  would — hire  a  nurse;  rich 
women  do  that.  She  said — they  were  rich,  Silas. 
You  heard  her?  " 

"  My  dear  Philura,"  he  reminded  her,  with 
a  touch  of  his  old  authority.  ' '  She  is  his  mother. 
We  must  not  forget  that." 

"  I  know,"  she  submitted. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  presently  and  looked 
about  him — at  the  white  crib  in  the  corner  with 


354 


THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 


its  tiny  pillow,  still  bearing  the  imprint  of  tlie 
baby's  head;  at  the  cheap  little  toys,  neatly  ar- 
ranged in  a  basket;  at  the  small  toilet  appurte- 
nances set  forth  upon  the  bureau.  .  .  . 

"  We  must  give  these  things  away,"  he  said, 

almost  harshly,  " put  them  out  of  sight;  I 

cannot  allow  you " 

She  lifted  her  hand  with  a  pleading  ges+ure. 

''  No,  Silas;  no,"  she  said,  softly.  '*  Let  them 
— stay.  ..." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MILLY 

Daffodils  and  crocus  spread  vivid  patches  of 
colour  against  the  stiff  brown  mould  of  the  Orne 
garden,  and  languid  bees,  plunged  deep  in  their 
faintly  odorous  cups,  smeared  their  brown  bodies 
in  the  plentiful  pollen  with  soft  humming  of  con- 
tent. Over  against  the  leafless  hedge  sprays  of 
*'  yellow-bush  "  and  flowering  almond  were  be- 
ginning to  show  a  delicate  tracery  of  gold  and 
rose. 

Grandma  Orne  standing  in  the  door,  her  ging- 
ham apron  over  her  head,  looked  forth  over  the 
garden  to  the  orchard  beyond. 

"  It  doos  beat  all,"  she  murmured, ''  how  every- 
thin'  comes  'round,  jes'  th'  same,  year  after  year. 
Things  'at  don't  make  no  differ 'nee,  like  yellow- 
bush  an'  crocus-blows.  They  don't  look  no  older 
'an  when  I  was  young — an'  me  'n'  Gran 'pa 
a-standin'  here,  both  of  us  straight  an'  strong 
an'  full  o'  gumption.  ...  A  body  'd  think  a  bush 
was  more  account  'an  folks — ef  they  didn  't  know 
no  better." 

"  What  you  mutterin'  about,  Gran 'ma?  "  pro- 
pounded   a    feeble    voice    from    the    bedroom. 

355 


356  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

*'  Seems  's  'o'  your  tongue  was  always  a-wag- 
gin'." 

Mrs.  Orne  poured  the  contents  of  a  saucepan 
into  a  cup,  her  lips  firmly  compressed. 

"  You  b'en  asleep,  Gran 'pa,  nigh  ont'  two 
hours,"  she  told  him.  ^'  Here's  yer  broth,  all 
nice  an'  hot.  I'll  put  an  extry  piller  under  yer 
head  so  't  you  c'n  drink  it." 

The  old  man  groaned  protestingly  as  he  yielded 
to  her  ministrations. 

'*  I  ain't  b'en  asleep,"  he  contradicted,  "  not 
fer  a  minute.    Don't  ye  s'pose  I  know?  " 

''  I  heerd  ye  a-snorin',"  said  Grandma,  con- 
vincingly.   "  You  cert'nly  had  a  reel  nice  nap." 

She  held  the  steaming  cup  to  his  puckered  lips. 

''  I  want  you  should  swaller  this  right  down," 
she  exhorted  him,  anxiously,  ' '  so  's  t '  git  up  yer 
stren'th.  The  spring  's  comin'  on  reel  nice;  why, 
th's  crocus  'n'  yellow-bush  'n'  butter- 'n '-eggs, 
all  in  blow, — jes'  where  you  planted  'em  out  when 
we  was  first  married.  You  r 'member,  don't  you, 
Gran 'pa?  " 

He  stared  at  her  uncomprehendingly  over  the 
brim  of  the  cup,  his  eyes  under  their  sparse  lashes 
resembling  dull  blue  glass. 

"  Where's  Milly?  "  he  demanded,  fretfully. 
^'  I  ain't  seen  her  all  day.  She  don't  seem  t' 
keer  ef  her  ol'  gran 'pa " 

'^  Now,  don'  you  talk  that-a-way,"  interrupted 
Mrs.    Orne,    with    a   brisk    show    of    authority. 


MILLY  357 

''  Milly  come  in  t'  seg  you,  first  thing  this  mornin'. 
She  was  np  in  the  night  a  couple  o'  times,  too, 
t'  fix  th'  fire.    I  guess  you  f ergot " 

She  bent  over  the  bed  and  spoke  loudly  in  the 
old  man's  ear: 

*' Milly 's    a-workin'   t'   Malvina   Bennett's 

shop.  She's  a-learnin'  th'  dressmakin'  trade, 
Gran 'pa!  " 

"  Wall,  you  don't  hev'  t'  holler  at  me  like 
that,"  he  rebuked  her.  ''  I  ain't  no  deefer  'n'  you 
be.  What'd  Milly  want  t'  do  that  fer,  I'd  like 
t'  know?  I  want  her  t'  hum.  She  c'd  make  out  t* 
plant  th'  lettuce  an'  reddishes,  I  guess.  'N'  you 
want  t'  git  th'  t'matoes  started  in  them  tin  cans 
I  saved.  .  .  .  Seems  like,  I  put  a  ripe  t'mato  on 
a  board  t' — t'  dry — fer  seed;  but  I  dunno — I 
dunno " 

His  wrinkled  lids  fell  suddenly  over  the  dull 
blue  of  his  tired  old  eyes.    He  was  asleep. 

Mrs.  Orne  softly  withdrew  the  extra  pillow 
from  beneath  her  husband's  head.  Then  she  stood 
looking  down  at  him,  her  head,  slightly  tremulous 
with  age,  bent  to  one  side ;  her  hands  touching  the 
bedclothes  with  little  caressing  pats. 

"  Well,  I  guess  Gran 'pa's  better,"  she  mur- 
mured; "  he  looked  reel  bright  when  he  was  set- 
tin'  up;  'n'  he  conterdicted  me  jest  es  peart  an' 
sassy.  Oh,  he'll  be  'round,  Gran 'pa  will.  But, 
land!  I  mus'  git  them  t'mato  seeds  started.  I'd 
clean  f ergot   'em." 


I 


358  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

Milly  came  home  early  that  night.  She  was 
afraid  Grandfather  wasn't  quite  so  well  when  she 
left  him  in  the  morning,  she  explained.  The  old 
lady  reassured  her  with  little  cackling  reminis- 
cences of  Grandpa's  smart  sayings  during  the  day. 

''  An'  you'd  ought  t'  'a'  heerd  him  a-findin' 
fault,"  she  finished,  triumphantly.  "  Oh,  he's 
pickin'  up.  Gran 'pa  is.  'Twon't  be  no  time  b'fore 
he's  out  a-putterin'  'round  th'  garden.  But  I'm 
'fraid  he'll  be  hoppin'  mad  when  he  fin's  we  clean 
f ergot  th'  t'matoes.  They'd  ought  t'  be  an  inch 
high  b'  now.  He  wants  you  should  plant  the  red- 
dishes,  Milly;  'n'  I  guess  you'd  better  do  it  right 
off,  so's  I  c'n  tell  him  t '-morrow;  mebbe  it'll  kind 
o'  pacify  him." 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  a  soft  glow  of  burning 
rose  as  the  girl  thrust  her  spade  deep  in  the  yield- 
ing loam.  She  had  changed  her  neat  gown  to 
one  of  faded  gingham,  and  over  it  wore  an  old 
coat  of  Grandfather's — a  concession  to  Grand- 
mother's anxious  fears  lest  she  should  "  take 
cold  ";  on  her  feet  were  broken  shoes — "  plenty 
good  fer  th'  garden,"  the  old  lady  had  declared, 
providently.  Milly  had  yielded,  without  protest; 
but  once  out  of  sight  of  the  window  where  Grand- 
mother was  washing  the  tea-things  she  flung  aside 
the  hat  pressed  down  over  her  bright  hair.  The 
walls  of  Miss  Malvina's  sewing-room  had  seemed 
to  stifle  the  girl  that  day;  she  welcomed  the  cool 
wind  which  had  sprung  up  at  sunset  with  a  sigh 


MILLY  359 

of  relief.  High  up  in  the  big  chestnut  trees  across 
the  road  robins  were  singing,  and  from  the  reedy 
margin  of  the  brook  uprose  the  plaintive  piping  of 
frogs.  Afar  off  on  a  neighbouring  farm  a  cow 
blatantly  announced  her  annual  bereavement. 
The  hollow,  melancholy  note  floated  lonesomely 
on  the  wind — seemed,  indeed,  to  be  a  part  of  it, 
as  it  swept  the  budding  trees,  on  its  way  down 
the  valley. 

The  light  was  fading  as  she  scattered  the  seed 
in  the  shallow  drills  she  had  prepared  for  it.  The 
cow  had  ceased  her  complaining  by  now;  but  the 
plaintive  frogs  piped  louder  than  ever  from  their 
reedy  marsh.  Milly  was  thinking  vaguely  of  the 
gentle  patter  of  Miss  Malvina's  conversation  that 
day.  The  little  dressmaker  had  indulged  in  va- 
rious reminiscences  of  her  own  youth,  as  the  two 
women  set  neat  finishing  stitches  on  a  gown  in- 
tended for  a  \dllage  bride. 

"  Eeel  pretty,  ain't  it!  "  said  Miss  Malvina, 
surveying  her  handiwork  with  honest  pride. 
''  Land!  I  r 'member,  when  I  first  b'giin  sewin' 
stiddy,  I  ust  t'  feel  kind  o'  nervous  like  when- 
ever I  had  t'  make  a  wedd'n-dress,  er  a  shroud; 
seems  's  o'  th'  goods  felt  kind  o'  differ 'nt  t'  th' 
han'.  ...  I  s'pose  I  hadn't  reely  give  up  bein' 
married  m'self,  'n'  I  hed  kind  of  a  notion  in  them 
days  'at  I'd  die  young,  ef  I  wasn't.  It  seemed  like 
an  awful  while  t'  forty,  even.  Think  s'  I,  I 
can't  never  stan'  it  that  long.    But,  land!  I  guess 


360  THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 

th's  some  folks  jes'  born  t'  help  other  folks  live 
an'  die.  I  know  I  was;  for  here  I  be — fifty-one, 
m'  las'  birthday,  an'  still  chipper, — a-making  up 
wedd'n-dresses  an'  shrouds,  er  anythin'  'at  comes 
t'  han'.  'N'  I've  give  up  dyin',  definite,  till  my 
time  comes." 

Milly  smoothed  the  earth  carefully  above  the 
radish  seed  and  pressed  it  down  with  a  board,  as 
Grandfather  had  taught  her,  wondering  if  after 
all  it  would  seem  so  terribly  long  to  thirty;  and 
if,  arrived  at  that  distant  bourne,  she  could,  at 
last,  forget  youth  and  the  poignant  ache  of  lone- 
liness at  her  heart. 

She  arose  from  her  knees  presently  and  brushed 
the  loose  earth  from  her  gown.  Grandmother  had 
lighted  the  lamp  and  set  it  on  a  table  near  the 
window.  Its  long  ray  of  pale  light  extended  into 
the  gathering  dusk,  like  an  unyielding  finger  point- 
ing down  a  gray  vista  of  years  to  be  travelled 
humbly  and  meekly. 

Then,  all  at  once,  she  perceived  that  she  was 
not  alone.  Absorbed  in  her  thoughts,  she  had  not 
heard  the  click  of  the  gate  nor  his  step  on  the 
soft  earth.  He  stood,  a  little  way  off,  gazing  at 
her  doubtfully. 

*'  I — wasn't  sure  at  first  that  it  was  really  you," 
he  said. 

She  glanced  awkwardly  at  her  faded  gingham 
and  ragged  coat,  her  heart  beating  suffocatingly 
in  her  throat.    Already  she  had  seen  that  he  was 


MILLY  361 

older,  graver,  and  that  his  dress  was  of  a  sober 
elegance. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  speak  to  me,  Milly?  " 

His  voice  seemed  to  come  to  her  from  a  great 
way  off. 

'*  I — You  surprised  me,"  she  stammered. 

Her  hands  (she  was  thinking)  were  stained  with 
earth.  Her  feet,  in  their  broken  shoes,  moved  a 
little. 

Then  all  at  once  she  felt  his  arms  close  about 
her. 

''  Milly — Milly!  "  he  was  murmuring,  his  lips 
against  her  cold  cheek. 

She  struggled  to  free  herself. 

' '  No — no !  ' '  she  cried  out.  ' '  You  must  let  me 
go!" 

''  Why?  Don't  you  love  mel  Have  you — for- 
gotten, already?  " 

He  drew  away  from  her,  his  face  pale  in  the 
fading  light. 

''  But  perhaps  you  are  thinking " 

''  I  have  finished  thinking,  long  ago,"  she  said, 
her  delicate  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  gazing 
straight  into  his.  "  All  these  months,  when  I 
heard  nothing  from  you " 

"  You  don't  know,"  he  interrupted,  eagerly. 
^'  My  mother You  will  let  me  explain " 

"  It  isn't  necessary,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  You 
are  not  in  my  world,  Walter  Hill.  You  had  noth- 
ing else  to  do — nothing,  even,  to  amuse  yourself 


362  THE  HEART  OF  PHILUEA 

with;  so — you  amused  yourself  with  ^e.  Your 
mother  permitted  it,  because  she  needed  a  servant. 
.  .  ,  That  is  what  I  am  fit  for — a  servant !  I  un- 
derstand— I  know.     You  needn't  explain." 

''  Milly,"  he  said,  gravely,  ''  my  mother — is 
dead." 

His  voice  broke  a  little  over  the  hard  word. 

"  All  that  she  did — strange,  even  cruel  as  it 
may  seem  to  you — must  be  forgiven,  now.  Do 
you  think  you  can  forgive  her — and  me?  " 

She  gazed  at  him  without  speech,  her  eyes,  un- 
der the  fallen  masses  of  her  hair,  wet  with  sud- 
den tears. 

' '  But  I You  don 't  know — everything, ' '  she 

murmured.    "  I  am  not  even " 

''  You  are  the  woman  I  love,"  he  made  swift 
answer. 

And  in  his  voice  and  eyes  was  all  the  boy's  pas- 
sion, deepened  and  made  sacred  by  the  sorrowful 
realisation  of  the  man  who  has  looked  upon  death, 
and  from  it  learned  something  of  the  meaning  of 
life. 


^ 


^^  SantaBarbara 


THIS 


^,  ThelastSate 


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